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THE  COMEDY  OF  A  MIDSUMMER 
NIGHT'S  DREAM 

WiUiam  Shakspeare 


Published  on  demand  by 

UNIVERSITY  MICROFILMS 

University  Microfilms  Limited,  High  Wycomb,  England 
A  Xerox  Company,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  U.S.A. 


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IJNlVEJ^Sl'i  ^'  MICROl-ll.MS,  A  Xerox  Coninany 
Aim  Arbor,  i.5i\::!.',:tn,  U.S.A. 
1969 


Iidfommer  niMits 


dreame.'    •    ^ 

As  It  bath  beene  fandry  times  ptsfv 
lively  aBed^  by  the  %tgk  Honoura^ 

blcj  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his 
fcradnts, 

VVrinenhjVVillimShci\eJ]^em.    ' 


Trintedhyhnes^herts^  l6oo* 

[The  above  Is  a  fac-simile  of  the  title  page  of  the  first  Quarto  Edition  of 
this  play,  printed  in  Shakspere's  lifetime]. 


THE    COMEDY    OF 
.  .     A 

MIDSUMMER 
NIGHT'S   DREAM 


WRITTEN   BY   WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 


3  '' 


/sN^"' 


And  Arranged  for  Representation  at  Daly's  Tiieatki,  by 

AUGUSTIN   DALY 

Trodvcsd  there  for  the  First  Time,  January  31,  1888 


z888 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED  FOR  MR.  DALY 


1     vj.  •  •-:  \\ 


^     \^— ."Ca 


v 


CorVRIOHT  BY 

AUGUSTIN   DALV,  i8 


iniicTiiio  AND  eooKimftma  cOK^Wk 


PREFACE 


TO 


THE   BOOK   OF  THE   PLAY 


OF 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


BY 


WILLIAM   WINTER. 


735 


PREFACE. 


Because  William  Shakspcre,  who  lived  in  this  world  only  fifty-hvo  years, 
wrote  so  much  within  that  brief  period,  and,  furthermore,  because  he  wrote 
with  such  transcendent  genius  and  ability,  it  has  pleased  theoretical  and 
visionary  observers  to  declare  that  he  never  wrote  at  all.  Shakspcre 
viewed  alone,  they  maintain,  is  a  miracle,  and  therefore  an  imj)oss:bility  ; 
but  Shalcsperc  and  Francis  Bacon,  rolled  into  one,  constitute  a  being  who 
is  entirely  natural  and  authentic.  Tlie  works  of  Shakspere  and  the  works 
of  Bacon  present,  indeed,  almost  every  possible  point  of  dissimilarity,  and 
no  point  of  resemblance.  The  man  behind  Shakspcrc's  plays  and  poertis 
and  the  man  behind  Bacon's  essays  and  philosophy  are  absolutely  distinct 
from  one  another,  and  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  The  direct  and  positive 
testimony  of  Shakspere's  friend  and  professional  associate,  Benjonson — a 
close  observer,  a'stcrn  critic,  a  truth-teller,  a  moralist,  not  over-amiable 
in  his  commentary  upon  human  nature,  and  neither  prone  to  error  nor 
liable  to  credulity — tells  the  world,  not  only  that  Shakspere  wrote,  but  in 
what  manner  he  wrote.  The  assumption,  implied  in  the  Bacon  theory," 
that  a  poet  capable  of  writing  "Hamlet,"  "Macbeth,"  "  Lear,"  and 
"  Othello,"  cither  would  or  could,  for  any  reason  whatsoever,  wish  to  es- 
cape the  imputation  of  their  authorship,  is  obviously  absurd.  The  idea 
that  Shakspere,  hired  by  Bacon  to  father  those  plays,  could  for  a  period  of 
years  go  in  and  out  among  the  actors  and  the  authors  of  his  time,  and  so 
impose  upon  their  sagacity  and  elude  their  jealous  scrutiny  as  to  keep 
the  secret  of  this  gigantic  fraud,  is  simply  ludicrous.  The  notion  that  the 
man  who  wrote  Shakspere's  poems — and  these,  undeniably,  were  the  work 
of  William  Shakspere — was  the  kind  of  man  to  lend  himself  to  any  scheme 
of  imposture  is  repudiated  by  every  intimation  of  character  that  those 
poems  contain  ;  and  the  same  may  rightfully  be  said  of  the  man  who  wrote 
Shakspere's  plays.  The  fact  that  the  plays,  which  these  theorists  would 
deny  to  Shakspere's  pen,  are  entirely,  absolutely,  and  incontestibly  kindred 
with  the  poems,  which  they  cannot  deny  to  it,  stands  forth  as  clear  as  the 
daylight.  The  associate  fact  that  the  plays  contain  precisely  such  er- 
rors as  would  naturally  be  made  by  the  untutored  Shakspere.  but  could 
not  possibly  be  made  by  the  thoroughly  taught  and  erudite  Bacon,  ish'ke- 
wise  distinctly  visible.     Yet,  all  the  same — because  Shakspere,  like  Burns, 

7 


PREFACE. 

sprung  from  n,  family  in  humble  station,  and  was  but  poorly  schooled — this 
preposterous  doctrine  persistently  rears  its  foolish  head,  and  insults  with 
idle  chnttcr  the  Shakspcrean  scholarship  of  the  world.  Only  a  few  weeks 
ago  a  prominent  representative  dramatist  of  the  day  had  the  astound- 
ing folly  to  announce  an  hypothesis — apparently  intended  to  be  taken  in 
earnest — tliat  Shaksperc's  tragedy  of  "  Hamlet"  was  written  by  Jonson, 
Webster,  Dekker,  and  Allcyne,  in  conjunction  with  Shakspere,  and  under 
his  supervision  ;  a  doctrine  which,  to  any  student  acquainted  with  those 
writers  and  their  times,  is  pitiable  in  its  silliness.  For  if  there  be  in  lit- 
erature any  work  which,  from  the  first  line  to  the  last,  and  in  every  word 
and  syllable  of  it,  bears  the  authentic  pressure  of  one  creative  and  pre- 
dominant mind — the  broad-headed  arrow  of  imperial  dominion — that 
work  is  "  Hamlet."  Shakspcre's  style,  once  known,  can  never  be  mis- 
taken. No  man  of  his  time,  with  the  single  exception  of  John  Fletcher, 
could  write  in  anything  like  his  peculiar  strain  of  simplicity  and  power. 
In  some  of  the  historical  plays  there  are  traces  of  collaboration  —  as  all 
readers  know ;  but  in  his  greater  plays  the  only  hand  that  is  visible  is 
the  liand  of  Shakspere. 

This  is  especially  true  of  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  and  prob- 
ably no  better  mental  exercise  than  the  analysis  of  the  style  and  spirit 
and  component  elements  of  this  piece  could  be  devised  for  those  persons 
— if  any  such  there  be— who  incline  to  entertain  cither  the  Bacon  theory 
or  the  collaboration  theory  of  the  authorship  of  Shakspere.  Dacon,  if  his 
avowed  writings  may  be  taken  as  the  denotement  of  his  mind,  could  no 
more  have  written  this  play  than  he  could  have  flown  on  wings  of  tissue- 
paper  over  the  spire  of  old  St.  Paul's  ;  nor  docs  it  exhibit  the  slightest 
deviation  from  one  invariable  poetic  mind  and  temperament.  Shak- 
spcre's fancy  takes  a  free  range  here,  and  revels  in  beauty  and  joy.  The 
Dream  v.-as  first  published  in  1600;  the  earliest  allusion  made  to  it  is  that 
of  Francis  Meres,  in  his  "  Palladis  Tamia,"  in  159S;  and  probably  it 
was  written  as  early  as  1594.,  when  Shakspere  was  thirty  years  old.  A 
significant  reference  to  the  subject  of  it  occurs  in  the  second  scene  of  the 
second  act  of  the  "  Comedy  of  Errors  "  (15S9-91),  which  has  been  thought 
to  indicate  that  the  poet  had  already  considered  and,  perhaps,  conceived 
it  :  he  was  working  with  wise  and  incessant  industry  at  that  time,  and  the 
amazing  fertility  of  his  creative  genius  was  beginning  to  reveal  itself.  The 
Dream  is  absolutely  of  his  own  invention.  The  names  of  the  characters, 
together  with  a  few  incidents,  he  derived  from  Plutarch,  Ovid,  and  Chau- 
cer— authors  with  whom  he  shows  himself  to  have  been  acquainted.  The 
story  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  occurs  in  Ovid,  and  a  translation  of  that 
Latin  poet,  made  by  Arthur  Golding,  was  current  in  Shaksperc's  day. 
It  is  thought  that  the  "  Knight's  Tale"  and  "  Tysbe  of  Babylone,"  by 
Chaucer,  may  have  been  the  means  of  suggesting  this  play  to  Shak- 
spere, but  his  story  and  his  characters  are  his  own.     And  although,  as 

8 


PREFACE. 

Dr.  Johnson  observes,  fairies  were  in  his  time  fashionable,  and  Spen- 
ser's poem  ("  The  Faerie  Queenc  ")  had  made  them  great,  Shakspcrc  was 
the  first  to  interblend  them  with  the  proceedings  of  mortals  in  a  drama. 
The  text  of  this  piece  is  considered  to  be  exceptionally  free  from  error  or 
any  sort  of  defect.  Two  editions  of  the  Dream,  quarto,  appeared  in  1600 — 
one  published  by  Thomas  Fisher,  bookseller  ;  the  other  by  James  Roberts, 
printer.  The  Fisher  publication  had  been  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall, 
October  8th,  that  year,  and  probably  it  was  sanctioned  by  the  author. 
The  two  editions  do  not  materially  differ,  and  the  modern  Shakspercan 
editors  have  made  a  judicious  use  of  both  in  their  choice  of  the  text. 
The  play  was  not  again  printed  until  1623,  when  it  appeared  in  the  first 
Folio. 

The  title-pages  of  the  Fisher  and  the  Roberts  Quartos  are  given  here- 
with, in  fac-similc.  It  is  not  known  which  was  first,  or  which  was  au- 
thorized. Each  of  these  Quartos  consists  of  32  leaves.  Neither  of  them 
distinguishes  the  acts  or  scenes.  In  the  first  Folio  (1623)  the  Dream 
occupies  18  pages,  from  p.  145  to  p.  162  inclusive,  in  the  section  devoted  to 
comedies — the  Acts,  but  not  the  Scenes,  being  distinguished.  The  editors 
of  that  Folio,  Heminge  and  Condell,  followed  the  text  of  the  Roberts 
Quarto.  The  memory  of  one  of  the  actors  who  appeared  in  the  Dream  in 
its  earliest  days  is  curiously  preserved  in  a  stage-direction,  printed  in  the 
First  P'olio,  in  Act  v.  Sc.  i.  :  "  Tawyer  with  a  trumpet."  The  piece,  of 
course,  appears  in  the  later  folios, — 1632,  1O64,  and  16S5.  "  A  Midsunv- 
mcr  Nigiit's  Dream"  was  popular  in  Shakspere's  own  time.  Mention  of 
it,  as  impliedly  a  play  in  general  knowledge  and  acceptance,  was  made  by 
Taylor,  the  Water  Poet,  in  !622. 

A  piece  called  "The  Fairy  Queen,"  being  Shakspere's  comedy,  with 
music  by  Purcell,  was  published  in  London  in  1692.  It  had  been  acted 
there  at  the  Haymarket — the  presentation  being  made  with  rich  dresses, 
fine  scenery,  and  elaborate  mechanism.  There  is  another  old  piece,  called 
"  The  Merry-Conceited  Humours  of  Bottom  the  Weaver."  This  was  made 
out  of  an  episode  in  the  Dream,  and  it  is  included  in  the  collection  of 
farces  attributed  to  Robert  Cox,  a  comedian  of  the  time  of  Charles  the- 
First,  published  in  1672.  A  comic  masque,  by  Richard  Leveridge,  simi- 
larly derived,  entitled  "  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"  was  performed  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  I'ields  Theatre,  and  was  published  in  1716.  Two  other  musical  farces, 
with  this  same  title  and  origin,  are  recorded — one  by  Mr.  Lampe,  acted  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  published  in  1745  5  ^^^c  other  by  W.  C.  Oulton,  acted 
at  Birmingham,  and  published  in  179S.  Garrick  made  an  acting-copy  of 
"  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream" — adding  to  the  text  as  well  as  curtailing 
it,  and  introducing  songs — and  this  was  played  at  Drury  Lane,  where  it 
failed,  and  was  published  in  1763.  Colman  reduced  Garrick's  piece  to 
two  acts,  and  called  it  "  A  Fairy  Tale,"  and  in  this  form  it  was  tried  at 
Drury  Lane,  and  published  in  1764  and  1777.     Colman,  however,  wrote  : 

9 


PREFACE, 

"  I  was  little  more  than  a  godfather  on  the  occasion,  and  the  alterations 
should  have  been  subscribed  Anon." 

The  best  production  of  this  comedy  ever  accomplished  on  the  English 
stage  was  that  effected  by  Charles  Kean,  at  the  Princess's  Theatre,  Lon- 
don,— managed  by  him  from  August,  1850,  till  August  29,  1859. 

The  first  performance  of  '*  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  ever  given 
in  America  occurred  at  the  old  Park  Theatre,  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Hil- 
son,  on  November  9,  1S26.  Mr.  Ireland,  in  his  valuable  Records,  has 
preserved  a  part  of  the  cast,  rescued  from  a  mutilated  copy  of  the  play- 
bill of  that  night  :  'I hesrus,  Mr.  Lee  ;  Bcltom,  Mr.  Hilson  ;  Snout,  Mr. 
Placide  ;  Obcron,  Mr.  I'eter  Richings  ;  Puck,  Mrs.  Hilson  ;  Titattia, 
Mrs.  Sharpe  ;  HippoHtii,Vi\<„  Stickney  ;  Ilenina,  Mrs.  Hackett.  On  Au- 
gust 30,  1S41,  the  comedy  was  again  revived  at  this  theatre,  with  a  cast 
that  included  Mr.  Fredericks  as  Theseus,  Mr.  \V.  H.  Williams  as  Bottom, 
Mrs.  Knight  as  Puck,  Charlotte  Cushman  as  Obcron^  Mary  Taylor  as  7V- 
taitia,  Susan  Cushman  as  Helena,  Mrs.  Groves  as  Hippolita,  Miss  Buloid 
faftcrward  Mrs.  Abbott),  as  Herviia,  William  Wheatley  as  Lysandcr,  C. 
W.  Clarke  as  Demetrius,  Mr.  Bellamy  as  Et^eus,  and  Mr.  Fisher  (not 
Charles),  as  Quince.  It  kept  the  stage  only  one  week.  The  next  revivals 
came  on  February  3  and  6,  1854,  at  Burton's  Theatre  and  at  the  Broad- 
way Theatre,  rival  houses.     The  parts  were  cast  as  follows  : 

At  Broadway.  At  Burton* j, 

Thesetis F.  B.  Conway Charles  Fisher. 

Lysanilcr Lanncrgan George  Jordan. 

Demetrius ..Grosvenor \V.  H.  Norton. 

Egcus Matthews Moore. 

Bottom Wilham  Davidge \V.  E.  Burton. 

Quince Howard T,  Johnston. 

Flute Whiting G.  Barrett. 

Snug Fisk RusselL 

Snout Henry G.  Andrews. 

Starveling Cutter Paul. 

Puck Miss  Viola  Crocker Mast.  Parsloe. 

Obcron Mme.  Ponisi , Miss  E.  Raymond. 

Titania Mrs.  Abbott Mrs.  Burton. 

Hilipoiita Mrs.  Warren Mrs.  J.  Cooke. 

Hcrmia Mrs.  Nagle Mrs.  Hough. 

Helena. Miss  A  Gougcnheim Mrs.  Buckland. 

Great  stress,  in  both  cases,  was  laid  upon  Mendelssohn's  music.  At 
each  house  it  ran  for  a  month.  It  was  not  revived  in  New  York  again 
until  April  iS,  1S59,  when  Laura  Keene  brought  it  forward  at  her  theatre, 
and  kept  it  on  till  May  28th,  with  C.  W.  Couldock  as  Theseus,  William 
Rufus  Hkike  as  Bottom,  Miss  M.icarthy  as  Obcron,  Miss  Stevens,  as  Hel' 
ena.  Miss  Ada  Clifton  as  Hermia,  and  herself  as  Puck.  It  was  afailure. 
Even  Blake  failed  as  Bottom — the  most  acute  critic  of  that  period  (Ed- 

xo 


PREFACE, 

w.ird  G.  P.  Wilkins),  describing  the  performance  as  "  not  funny,  not  even 
grotesque,  but  vulgar  and  unpleasant."  Charles  Peters  was  good  as  Tliisbe. 
The  stage-version  used  was  made  by  R.  G.  White.  This  same  theatre  sub- 
sequently became  the  Olympic  (not  Mitchell's,  but  the  second  of  that  name), 
and  here,  on  October  2S,  1S67,  under  the  management  of  Mr.  James  £. 
Hayes  and  the  direction  of  Joseph  Jefferson,  who  had  brought  over  from 
London  a  fine  Grecian  panorama  by  Tclbin,  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  was  again  offered,  with  a  cast  that  included  G.  L.  Fox  as  Bottom^ 
W.  Davidge  as  Quiuce,  Owen  Marlowe  as  Flute,  Cornelia  Jefferson  as  TY- 
fania,  Clara  Fislicr  as  Pcasblossoin,  Miss  Fanny  Stockton  as  Obcron,  Miss 
Alice  Harrison  ^^■s.  Fairy,  Master  Willie  Young  as  Puck,  .Mr.  Harry  Wall 
as  Theseus,  Mr.  J.  J.  Wallace  as  Demetrius,  Mr.  J.  Franks  as  Lysandcr, 
Mr.  T.  J.  Hind  as  Ei^eus,  Mrs.  Edmonds  as  Hippolita,  Mrs.  Wallace  as 
Herviia,  Miss  Louisa  Hawthorne  as  Jiclcna,  Mr.  M.  Quinlan  as  Stout, 
Mr.  C.  K.  Fox  as  Siiut^,  Mr.  J.  B.  Howland  as  Starveling,  and  Miss  Vin- 
cent, Miss  Howard,  Miss  Thomas,  and  Miss  Le  Brun  as  Fairies.  Tel- 
bin's  panorama,  a  magnificent  work,  displayed  the  country  supposed  to  lie 
between  Athens  and  the  forest  wherein  the  Fairy  Queen  and  the  lovers 
arc  enchanted  and  bew-itchcd  and  the  sapient  Bottom  is  "  translated." 
Fox  undertook  Bottom,  for  the  first  time,  and  he  was  droUy  consequential 
and  stolidly  conceited  in  it.  Landseer's  famous  picture  of  Titatiia  and 
the  ass-headed  Bottom  was  v.'ell  copied,  in  one  of  the  scenes.  Mr.  Hayes 
provided  a  gorgeous  tableau  at  the  close.  Mendelssohn's  music  was 
played  and  sung,  with  excellent  skill  and  effect — the  chief  vocalist  being 
Clara  Fisher.  Owen  Marlowe,  as  T/iisOe,  gave  a  burlesque  of  the  manner 
of  Rachel.  The  comedy,  as  then  given,  ran  for  one  hundred  nights — from 
October  2S,  1S67,  till  February  i,  iSCS.  The  stage  version  used  was  that 
of  Charles  Kcan. 

The  next  production  of"  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  was  cflfccted 
by  Augustin  Daly  at  the  Grand  Opera  House,  on  August  19,  1S73.  The 
scenery  then  employed,  especially  a  woodland  painted  by  Mr.  G.  Heis- 
ter,  was  of  extraordinary  beauty — delicate  in  color,  sensuous  in  feeling, 
sprightly  in  fancy.  Mr.  Fox  again  played  Bottom  /  "Miss  Fanny  Kemp 
Bowler  appeared  as  Obcron,  Miss  Fay  Templeton  as  Puck,  Miss  Fanny 
Hayward  (Stocqueler)  as  Titania,  Miss  Nina  Varian  as  Helena,  Miss 
Adelaide  Lennox  as  Hermia,  Miss  M.  Chambers  as  Hippolita,  Mr.  M. 
A.  Kennedy  as  Theseus,  Mr.  D.  H.  Harkins  as  Lysander,  Mr.  James 
Taylor  as  Demetrius,  and  Mr.  Frank  Hardcnburgh  as  Egeus.  The  piece 
ran  three  weeks. 

The  attentive  reader  of  this  stage-version,  made  by  Mr.  Daly,  will  ob* 
serve  that  much  illustrative  stage-business  has  been  introduced  by  him, 
which  is  new  and  effective.     The  disposition  of  the  groups  at  the  start  is 
fresh,  and  so  is  the  treatment  of  the  quarrel  between  Uberon  and  Titania,  ■ 
with  disappearance  of  the  Indian  child.     The  moonlight  effects,  in  the 

iz 


PREFACE. 

transition  from  act  second  to  act  third,  and  the  gradual  assembly  of  gob- 
lins and  fairies  in  the  shadowy  mists  through  which  the  fire-flics  glimmer, 
at  the  dose  of  act  tliird,  arc  novel  and  beautiful.  Cuts  and  transpositions 
have  been  made  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act,  in  order  to  close  it  with  the 
voyage  of  the  bat-gc  of  Theseus,  through  a  summer  landscape,  on  the  silver 
ntrcam  that  ripples  down  to  Athens.  Tlie  third  act  has  been  judiciously 
compressed,  so  that  the  spectator  may  not  sec  loo  much  of  the  perplexed 
and  wrangling  lovers.  Only  a  few  changes  have  been  made,  and  those 
only  such  as  are  absolutely  essential.  But  little  of  the  original  text  has 
been  omitted.  The  music  for  the  choruses  has  been  selected  from 
various  English  composers  ;  that  of  Mendelssohn  is  used  only  in  the 
orchestr.i.  It  is  ui)on  the  strength  of  the  comedy,  and  not  upon  the  inci- 
dent.ll  music,  that  reliance  has  been  placed,  in  effecting  this  revival.  The 
accept';-*d  doctrine  of  traditional  criticism— a  doctrine  made  seemingly 
potent  by  reiteration — that  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  is  not  for 
the  stage,  need  not  necessarily  be  considered  final.  Hazlitt  was  the  first 
to  insist  on  that  idea.  "  Poetry  and  the  stage,"  said  that  great  writer, 
"do  not  agree  well  together.  The  attempt  to  reconcile  them,  in  this  in- 
stance, fails  not  only  of  effect,  but  of  decorum.  The  ideal  can  have  no^ 
place  upon  the  stage,  which  is  a  picture  without  perspective.  The 
imaginadcn  cannot  sufficiently  qualify  the  actual  impression  of  the  sen- 
ses." But  this  is  only  saying  that  there  arc  difficulties.  The  remark 
applies  to  all  the  higher  forms  of  dramatic  literature ;  and,  logically,  if 
this  doctrine  were  observed  in  jiractice,  none  of  the  great  plays  would  be 
attempted.  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dreain,"  with  all  its  ideal  spirit, 
is  essentially  dramatic  ;  it  ought  not  to  be  lost  to  the  stage  ;  and  to 
some  extent,  certainly,  the  difUcultics  can  be  surmounted.  In  the  spirit 
of  a  dream  the  play  was  wrir.ten,  and  in  Uie  spirit  of  a  dream  it  can  be 
acted. 

The  student  of  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  as  often  as  he  thinks 
upon  tilts  lofty  and  lovely  expression  of  a  most  luxuriant  and  happy 
poetic  fancy,  must  necessarily  find  himself  impressed  with  its  exquisite 
purity  ofspirit,  its  affluence  of  invention,  its  extraordinary  wealth  of  con- 
trasted cliaracters,  its  absolute  symmetry  of  form,  and  its  great  beauty 
of  poetic  diction.  The  essential,  wholesome  cleanliness  and  sweetness 
of  Shalcspere's  mind,  unaffected  by  the  gross  animalism  of  his  times, 
appear  conspicuously  in  this  play.  No  single  trait  of  the  piece  im- 
presses the  reader  more  agreeably  than  its  frank  display  of  the  sponta- 
neous, natural,  and  entirely  delightful  exultation  of  7 /icseus  and  Hippo- 
li/a  in  their  approaching  nuptials.  They  are  grand  creatures  both,  and 
they  rejoice  in  each  other  and  in  their  perfectly  accordant  love.  Nowhere 
in  Shakspcrc  is  there  a  more  imperial  man  than  Theseus  ;  nor,  despite  her 
feminine  impatience  of  dulnc?s,  a  woman  more  beautiful  and  more  es- 
sentially woman-like  tlian  Jlippolita.     It  is  thought  that  the  immediate 

12 


PREFACE. 

impulse  of  this  comedy,  in  Shaksperc's  mind,  was  the  marriage  of  his  friend 
"^nd  benefactor,  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  with  Elizabeth  \'crnon — which, 
while  it  did  not  in  fact  occur  till  I595<,  was  very  likely  agreed  upon,  and 
had  received  Queen  Elizabeth's  sanction,  as  early  as  1594-95.  In  old 
English  literature  it  is  seen  that  such  a  theme  often  proved  suggestive  of 
ribaldry  ;  but  Shakspcre  could  preserve  the  sanctity  even  wliilc  lie  revelled 
in  the  passionate  ardor  of  love,  and  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream," 
while  it  possesses  all  the  rosy  glow,  the  physical  thrill,  and  tl'.c  inciting  ten- 
derness of  such  pieces  as  Merrick's  "  Nuptiall  Song,"  is  likewise  fraught 
with  all  the  moral  elevation  and  unaffected  chastity  of  such  pieces  as  Mil- 
ton's "Comus."  Human  nature  is  shown  in  it  as  feeling  no  sliamc  in  its 
elemental  and  rightful  passions,  and  as  having  no  reason  to  feel  ashamed 
of  them.  The  atmosphere  is  free  and  bracing;  the  tone  honest;  the 
note  true.  Then,  likewise,  the  fertility  and  felicity  of  the  poet's  invention 
— intertwining  the  loves  of  earthly  sovereigns  and  of  their  subjects  with 
the  dis'-ensions  of  fairy  monarchs,  the  pranks  of  mischievous  elves,  the 
protective  care  of  attendant  sprites,  and  the  comic  Intt  kind-hearted  and 
well-meant  fealty  of  boorish  peasants — arouse  lively  interest  and  keep 
it  steadily  alert.  In  no  other  of  his  works  has  Shaksperc  more  brilliantly 
shown  that  complete  dominance  of  theme  which  is  manifested  in  the  per- 
fect preservation  of  proportion.  The  strands  of  action  are  braided  with 
astonishing  grace.  The  fourfold  otory  is  never  allowed  to  lapse  into  dul-  J 
ncss  or  obscurity.     There  is  caprice,  but  no  distortion.     The  supcrnatu-  •■ 

ral  machinery  is  never  wrested  toward  the  production  of  startling  ormon- 
strous  effects,  but  it  deftly  impels  each  mortal  personage  in  the  natural  1 

line  of  human  development.     The  dream-spirit  is  maintained  throughout,  j 

and  perhaps  it  is  for  this  reason — that  the  poet  was  living  and  think-         I 
ing  and  writing  in  the  free,  untrammelled  world  of  his  own  spacious  and         / 
airy  imagination,  and  not  in  any  definite  spliere  of  this  earth — that  "A        / 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  is  so  radically  superior  to  the  other  come-       / 
dies  written  by  him  at  about  the  same  period,  "The  Two  Gentlemen  of      / 
Verona,"  "  The  Comedy  of  Errors,"  "  Love's  Labor's  Lost,"  and  "  The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew."     His  genius  overflows  in  this  piece,  and  the  rich     < 
excess  of  it  is  seen  in  passages  of  the  most  exquisite  poetry — such  as  the 
beautiful  speeches  of  Titania  and  O'ocroii,  in  the  second  act— over  against 
which  is  set  that  triumph  of  humor,  that  immortal  Interlude  of  "  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe,"  which  is  the  father  of  all  the  burlesques  in  our  language,  and 
which,  for  freshness,  pungency  of  apposite  satire,  and  general  applicabil- 
ity to  the  foible  of  self-love  in  human  nature,  and  to  ignorance  and  folly 
in  human  affairs,  might  have  been  written  yesterday.     The  only  faults  in 
this  play  are  a  slight  tinge  of  monotony  in  the  third  act,  concerning  the 
lovers  in  the  wood,  and  an  excess  of  rhymed  passages  in  the  text  through- 
out.    Shaksperc  had  not  yet  cast  aside  that  custom  of  rhyme  which  was 
in  vogue  when  he  came  first  upon  the  scene.     But  these  defects  arc  trifles. 

'  '3 


J 


PREFACE. 

The  beauties  ovcrwliclm  them.     It  would  take  many  pages  to  enumer- 
ate and  fitly  to  descant  on  the  felicities  of  literature  that  we  owe  to  this 
comc(.!y  — gens  siicli  as  the  famous  passage  on  "the  course  of  true  love  ;  "_   | 
the  regal  picture  of  Queen  IHizabeth  as  "  a   fair  vestal  thron^-d  by  the    f 
west;"  the  fine  description  of  the  stormy  summer  (that  of  1594  in  Eng- 
land, according  to  Stowe's  Chronicle  and  Dr.  Simon  Forman's  Diary)  ;       | 
the  vision  of  Titaiiia  asleep  upon  the  bank  of  wild  thyme,  oxlips,  and  vio-      \ 
lets  ;  the  clocpient  contrasts  of  lover,  madman,  and  poet,  each  subdued       ■ 
and  impelled  by  that  "  strong  imagination  "  which"  bodies  forth  the  forms       ! 
of  things  unknown  ;  "  and  the  wonderfully  spirited  lines  on  the  hounds       | 
of  Sparta,  "with  ears  that  swept  away  the  morning  dew."     In  character       | 
likewise,  and  in  those  salutary  lessons  which  the  truthful  portraiture  of 
character  invariably  teaches,  this  piece  is  exceptionally  strong.     Helena, 
noble  and  loving,  yet  a  little  perverted  from  true  dignity  by  her  sexual  in- 
fatuation ;  Jlennia,  shrewish  and  violent,  despite  her  feminine  sweetness, 
and  possibly  because  of  her  impetuous  and  clinging  ardor  ;  Demetrius 
and  Lystvttfer,  each  selfish  and  fierce  in  his  love,  but  tnanly,  straightfor- 
ward fellows,  abounding  more  in  youth  and  desire  than  in  brains  ;  JiottoDi, 
the  quintessence  of  bland,  unconscious  cgolisn\  and  self-conceit ;  and  The- 
seus, the  princely  gentleman  and  typical  ruler — these  make  up,  assur- 
edly, one  of  the  most  interesting  and  significant  groups  that  can  be  found 
in  fiction.     The  self-centred  nature,  the  broad-minded  view,  the  mag- 
nanimous spirit,  the  calm  adequacy,  the  fine  and  high  manner  of  Theseus, 
make  this  character  alone  the  inspiration  of  the  comedy  and  a  most  potent 
lesson  upon  the  conduct  of  life.     Through  certain  of  his  people — such 
.IS  Ulysses  in  "  Troilus  and  Crcssida,".the  Duke  in  "  Measure  for  Meas- 
ure," and  Prospero  in  "The  Tempest" — the  voice  of  Shaksperc  himself, 
speaking  personally,  is  clearly  heard  ;  and  it  is  heard  .also  in   Theseus. 
"  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows,"  says  this  wise  observer  of  life, 
when  he  comes  to  speak  of  the  actors  who  copy  it,  "  and  the  worst  arc  no 
worse,  if  imagination  amend  them,"     There  is  no  higher  strain  of  prince- 
like  courtesy  and  considerate  grace,  even  in  the  perfect  breeding  oi  Ham- 
let, than  is  visible  in  the  preference  of  Theseus  for  the  play  of  the  hard- 
handed  men  of  Athens  : 

"  And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 
For  never  anything  can  be  amiss 
When  simplencss  and  duty  tender  it." 

With  reference  to  the  question  of  suitable  method  in  the  acting  of  "  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  it  may  be  observed  that  too  much  stress 
can  scarcely  be  laid  upon  the  fact  that  this  comedy  was  conceived  and 
written  absolutely  in  the  spirit  of  a  dream.  It  ought  not,  therefore,  to  be 
treated  as  a  rational  manifestation  of  orderly  design.     It  possesses,  indeed, 

14 


n/ 


PREFACE. 

a  coherent  and  symmetrical  plot  and  a  definite  purpose  ;  but,  while  it 
moves  toward  a  final  result  of  absoUue  order,  it  presupposes  intermediary 
progress  through  a  realm  of  motley  shapes  and  fantastic  vision.  Its  per- 
sons arc  creatures  of  the  fancy,  and  all  effort  to  make  them  solidly  actual, 
to  set  them  firml;'  upon  the  earth,  and  to  accept  them  as  realities  of  com- 
mon life,  is  labor  ill-bestowed. 

The  German  Shakspercan  commentator  Ulrici — who  commonly  has 
an  excess  of  theory  and  errs  by  explaining  too  much — has  made  certain. 
observations  upon  this  comedy  which  are  exceptionally  helpful  toward  a 
clear  view  of  Shakspere's  drift,     "It  is  the  comic  view  of  things,"  says 

this  writer,  "  that  forms  the  basis  of  the  whole  piece Not 

merely  in  particular  cases  do  the  maddest  tricks  of  accident,  as  well  as  of 
human  caprice,  perversity,  and  folly,  destroy  each  other  in  turn,  but, 
generally,  the  principal  pursuits  and  provinces  of  life  are  made  to  parody 

and  paralyze  each  other The  particular  modification  of  the 

general  comic  view,  which  results  from  this  ironical  parodying  of  all  the 
domains  of  life,  at  once  determines  and  gives  expression  to  the  special 
ground-idea  which  first  reduces  the  whole  into  organic  unity.  Life  is 
throughout  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  midsummer  night's  dream.     .... 

Life  appears  in  travesty The  mind  seems  to  have  lost  its  self-  ', 

consciousness,  while  all  the  other  faculties,  such  as  feeling  and  f;incy,  / 

wit  and  humor,  arc  allowed  the  fullest  scope  and  license Gen- 
erally the  characters  are  drawn  in  keeping  with  the  pervading  idea,  with 
a  few  fine  touches,  and  without  depth  of  shade,  in  a  vanishing  chiaro- 

oscuro Every  character  is  pervaded  by  and    represents  the 

general  idea,  that  the  individual,  in  and  by  himself,  is  as  nothing,  and 
without  importance  except  as  a  moment  in  the  development  of  the 
whole." 

To  body  forth  the  form  of  things  is,  in  this  case,  manifestly,  a  difficult 
task  :  and  yet  the  true  course  is  obvious.  Actors  who  yield  themselves 
to  the  spirit  of  whim,  and  drift  along  with  it,  using  a  delicate  method 
and  avoiding  insistence  upon  prosy  realism,  will  succeed  with  this  piece 
— provided,  also,  that  their  audience  can  be  fanciful,  and  can  accept  the 
performance,  not  as  a  comedy  of  ordinary  life,  but  as  a  vision  seen  in  a  f 
dream.  The  play  is  full  of  intimations  that  this  was  Shakspere's  mood. 
Even  Bottoniy  the  consummate  flower  of  unconscious  humor,  is  at  his 
height  of  significance  in  his  moment  of  supreme  illusion  :  "  I  have  had  a 
dream, — past  the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was  : — Man  is  but  an 
ass  if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream,     Methought  I  was — there  is  no 

man  can  tell  what.    Methought  I  was,  and  methovight  I  had Iktt  man    • 

is  but  a  patched  fool  if  he  will  offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had.     The   ; 
eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of  man  hath  not  seen,  man's  hand  is 
not  able  to  taste,  his  tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report,  what  my  ;       ••  . 
dream  was."     The  whole  philosophy   of  the  subject,  comically  stated, 


4 


a 


PREFACE. 

I        ■  ■ 

is  here.    A  serious  statement  of  it  is  in  the  words  of  the  poet  Camp- 
bcM: 

"  Well  may  sleep  present  us  fictions, 
Since  our  waking  moments  teem 
With  such  fanciful  convictions 
As  make  life  itself  a  dream." 

Various  actors  in  the  past— although  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  " 
has  not  Jiad  great  currency  upon  the  stage,  at  any  period,  whether  in 
Kngland  or  America — have  laid,  a  marked  stress  upon  the  character  of 
liotlom.  Samuel  Phelps,  upon  the  London  stage,  was  esteemed  excellent 
in  it.  He  acted  the  part  in  his  own  production  of  the  Dream,  at  Sad- 
ler's Wells,  and  he  again  acted  it  in  1870  at  the  Queen's  Theatre,  in  Long 
Acre — now  demolished.  On  the  American  stage,  William  E.  Burton  was 
accounted  wonderfully  good  in  it.  "  As  Mr.  Burton  renders  the  character," 
says  Richard  Grant  White,  "its  traits  arc  brought  out  with  a  delicate 
and  masterly  hand  ;  its  humor  is  exquisite.''  And  Mr.  William  L.  Keese, 
in  his  careful  and  very  serviceable  biography  of  Burton,  makes  equally 
cordial  reference  to  this  achievement  of  the  great  comedian  :  "  How 
striking  it  was  in  sustained  individuality,  and  how  finely  exemplified 
was  the  potential  vanity  of  Bottom  !  What  pleased  us  greatly  was  the  vein 
of  engaging  raillery  which  ran  through  the  delivery  of  his  speeches  to  the 
fairies."  Burton  produced  the  Dream  at  his  own  theatre,  in  1854,  with 
such  wealth  of  fine  scenery  as  in  those  days  was  accounted  prodigious. 
The  most  notable  impersonation  o{ Bottom  that  has  been  given  here  since 
Burton's  time  was,  probably,  that  of  the  late  George  L.  Fox — already  men- 
tioned in  this  preface.  Self-conceit,  as  tlie  essence  of  the  character,  was 
thoroughly  well  understood  and  expressed  by  him,  He  wore  the  ass's 
head,  but  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  wearing  it  5  and  when,  afterward, 
the  vague  sense  of  it  came  upon  him  for  an  instant,  he  put  it  by  as  some- 
thing inconceivable  and  intolerable.  His  "Not  a  word  of  me  1" — spoken 
to  the  other  hard-handed  men  of  Athens,  after  his  return  to  them  out  of 
the  enchanted  "palace  wood" — was,  perhaps,  his  finest  single  point. 
Certainly  it  expressed  to  the  utmost  the  colossal  self-love  and  swelling 
pomposity  of  this  miracle  of  bland  and  opaque  sapience.  But  Fox  was 
stronger  in  pantomime  than  in  a  consistent  character  of  sustained  comedy. 
The  essential  need  of  acting,  in  a  portrayal  of  this  play,  is  whimsicality — 
but  it  must  be  whimsicality  exalted  by  poetry. 

I  William  Winter. 


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[The  above  is  a  facsimile  of  the  title  page  of  a  reprint  of  the  first  Quarto 
Edition  of  the  play.] 


,l|v  * 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS   DREAM. 


ACT  I. 

Scene.— -The  Palace  of  Theseus,  at  Athens.  At  the  rise 
of  the  curtain,  to  melodious  strains,  certain  nobles  are 
discovered  in  various  groups  about  the  scene.  PlllLOS- 
TRATE,  with  some  ladies  of  the  Amazon  Court,  are  at  the 
R.  They  all  bozu  profoundly  as  TlIESEUS  and  HlP- 
POLITA  enter,  conversing,  from  L.,  and  come  forivard,  C. 

The.  Now,  fair  HippoIIta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace  ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon  :  but,  oh,  mcthinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes  !  she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in  nights  ; 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals, 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. 

\^Exit  Philostrate. 
Hippolita,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries  ; 

21 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key,  ^ 

With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 

\JIc  leads  Iter  ton  lounge  at  \\.^  where  the  women  of  her 
court  surround  her.  He  reclines  beside  her.  Miisic^ 
which  is  interrupted  by  entrance  of  Egeus  and  Hermia 
front  L.    Lysander  rtz/rt' Demetrius /^//(77t/. 

Ege,  Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke  ! 

\_IIe  kneels.      The  others  also  kneel,  but  rise  immediately. 

The.  Thanks,  good  Egeus.     What's  the  news  with  thee  ? 

Hge.  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia  : 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius.     \_He  rises.']     My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her. — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander : — and,  my  gracious  duke, 
This  man  liatli  bcwitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child  : 

[//<?  crosses  to  LYSANDER. 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  intcrchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 
Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's  heart ; 
Turn'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me, 
To  stubborn  harshness.     [^Returning  to  TllESElJS.']     And,  my 

gracious  duke. 
Be  it  so,  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 
Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens,    . 
As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her: 
Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman, 
Or  to  her  death  ;  according  to  our  law, 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

The.  What  say  you,  Hermia  ?  be  advis'd,  fair  maid  : 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god  ; 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.  So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is. 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

82 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Her.  I  would  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eyes  ! 

The.  Rather,  your  eyes  must  with  liis  judgment  look. 

I:Icr.  I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me.         \Kncelwg. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty,' 
In  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  my  thoughts : 
]3ut  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befal  mc  in  this  case, 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.   {^Rising.']  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men.     [^Advancing  to  her,  as  she  riseSk 
Tlicrefore,  fair  Hcrmia,  question  your  desires, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun  ;  .    .  ' 

For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd, 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life. 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage  : 
But  earthly  happier  is  the  rose  distill'd, 
Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  maiden  heart  and  vow"  .  • 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause  ;  and,  by  the  next  new  moon, 

[Returning  to  HiPPOLITA. 
(The  scaling-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
P'or  disobedience  to  your  father's  will  ; 
Or  else,  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would  ; 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest, 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

\_Sits  and  converses  with  HiPPOLITA. 
Dent.   Relent,  sweet  Herinia  ;  and,  Lysander,  yield 
Thy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

«3 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Lys.  You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius  ; 
Let  mc  have  Mcnnia's  :  do  you  marry  him. 

Jlgc.  Scornful  Lysander  !  true,  he  hath  my  love  ; 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him ; 
And  she  is  mine  ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

[Lysander /^^j-r^  Egeus  and  addresses  Theseus. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he. 
As  well  possess'd  ;  my  love  is  more  than  his  ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right? 
Demetrius,  I'll  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 
Upon  this  spotted  and  inconstant  man. 

The.  I  must  confess  that  I  have  heard  so  much. 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  thereof, 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs, 
My  mind  did  lose  it. 

{Rises  and  comes  forward. 
But,  Demetrius,  come  ; 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  with  me, 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will  ; 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. 
Come,  my  Hippolita  ;       .    • 
Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along  : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial  ;  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Egc.  With  duty  and  desire,  we  follow  you. 
\_Excunt    TiiESEus,    Hippolita,    Egeus,    Demetrius, 
and  Court,  R. 

«4 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  ?     Why  is  your  check  so  pale  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her,  Belike  for  want  of  rain,  wliich  I  could  well 
Bcteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.  Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  talc  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 
Or  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 
War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound. 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream. 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, — Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny  : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross  ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 

Lys.  A  good  persuasion  ;  therefore,  hear  me,  Hcrmia. 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  ; 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues  ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son.  • 

There,  gentle  Hcrmia,  may  I  marry  thee, 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'st  me  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysandcr ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow  ; 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls,  and  prospers  loves  ; 

25 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke  ; — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lj^s.  Keep  promise,  love.     Look,  here  comes  Helena. 

Hklexa  enters  as  if  looking  for  them.  They  previously  go 
aside.  As  Melena  sees  them  she  starts  with  a  patig,  and 
Hekmia  advances  smilingly. 

Her,  God  speed  fair  Helena  !     Whither  away  ? 

Hel.  Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  you  fair:  0  happy  fair  1 
Your  eyes  arc  lode-stars  ;  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air, 
More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching  ;  0,  were  favour  so, 
Your  words  I'd  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go, 
My  car  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 
Wore  the  world  mine,  it  would  I  give 
To  be  to  you  transformed. 
O,  leach  mc  how  you  look,  and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.  I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

\_Coqnettishly. 

Hel.  O  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles  such  skill ! 

Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  mc  love. 

\_Tnrns  frotn  hYSAyDFAi,  pettishly,  and  crosses. 

Hel.   O  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection  move  1 

Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hel.  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hatcth  me. 

Her.  His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

[Lysander  kneels  at  her  feet  and  kisses  her  hand. 

Hel.   None,  but  your  beauty  ;  would  that  fault  were  mine  ! 
\frhroxvs  herself  on  scat  and  buries  her  head  in  her  hands. 

Her.  Take  comfort,  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face  ; 
Lysandcr  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. 

26 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

Before  the  time  I  did  Lysandcr  sec, 

Sccm'd  Atliciis  like  a  paradise  to  me  : 
0  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell, 
That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  unto  a  hell ! 

Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  wc  will  unfold : 
To-morrow  night,  when  Pha:be  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  wat'ry  glass. 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal,) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 

Ilcr.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lid, 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet  :    .".". 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes, 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies.     • 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow,  pray  thou  for  us. 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! —  .     •     . 

Keep  word,  Lysander  :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

{^Exit  Hermia,  r.  ;  the  music  of  lyres  is  heard  outside. 

Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia. — Helena,  adieu  : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you  1       [Exit  LYSANDER,  L. 

Hel.  How  happy  some  o'er  other-some  can  be  1 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Demetrius  thinks  not  so  ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know.         \Sinks  on  seat^  C 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind, ' 
And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind.  -     • 
Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste. 
Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste  ; 
And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child, 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 
And  ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  eyne. 
He  hail'd  down  oaths,  that  he  was  only  mine ; 
And  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt — 
So  he  dissolved — and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 

\Suddenly  rises. 

*7 


r~)      . 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight : 

Then  to  the  wood  will  he  to-morrow  night 

Pursue  her ;  and  for  this  intelligence. 

If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense  : 

But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 

To  have  his  sight,  thither  and  back  again.  [Exit, 


Curtain. 
28 


ACT  II, 

Scene  i.— At  Peter  Quince's  House,  in  Athens. 
Quince  enters  from  the  R.,  vieeting  Snug,  who  enters 
from  the  I..,  followed  at  first  by  SNOUT  aiid  STARVELING, 
and  afterward  by  FLUTE  and  BOTTOM. 

Qitin.  Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Snug.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by  man, 
according  to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name,  which  is 
thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our  interlude  before 
the  duke  and  the  duchess,  on  his  wedding-day  at  night,  • ' 

Star.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play  treats 
on  ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and  so  grow  to  a 
point.  •       . 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamentable  comedy, 
and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  A  very  good 
piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and  a  merry. 

Sn7tg.  Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your  actors,  by 
the  scroll  :  Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

l^They  range  themselves  in  a  semicircle  about  QuiNCE,, 
zvho  is  C. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver. 
[Bottom  enters  from  L.,  in  a  hurry. 

Bat.  Ready.     Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

Bot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 
.  Quin.  A  lover  that  kills  himself  most  gallant  for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of  it.  If 
I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes  ;  I  will  move  storms  ; 
I  will  condole  in  some  measure.    Yet,  my  chief  humor  is  for  a 

29 


A  MIDSUMMER.  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

tyrant :  I  could  play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to 
make  all  split : 

The  raging  rocks, 

With  shivering  shocks. 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prisongates, 
Aftd  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  front  far. 
And  make  and  mar 

The  foolish  fates. 

This  was  lofty  ! — Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. — This 
is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein  ;  a  lover  is  more  condoling. 

Quiu.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Flute,  you  must  take  Thisbe  on  you. 

Flu.  What  is  Thisbe  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 

Q^iin.   It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  not  me  play  a  woman~f"I"have  a  beard 
coming. 

Quin.  That's  all  one  ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask,  and  you 
mjiy  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisbe  too  :  I'll 
speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice  : — Thisnc,  Thisne, — Ah,  Pyr- 
amus,  my  lover  dear  ; — tJiy  Thisbe  dear  !  and — lady  dear  ! 

Quin.  No,  no,  you  must  play  Pyramus  ;  and,  Flute,  you 
Thisbe. 

Bot.  Well,  proceed.  \Sulkily.- 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisbe's  mother. — 
Tom  Snout,  the  tinlcer. 

Snout.   Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You,  Pyramus'  father;  myself,  Thisbe's  father; — 
Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  pait : — and,  I  hope,  here  is  a 
play  fittcd- 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  pray  you,  if  it  be, 
give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

30 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Quill.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing  but 
roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too  :  I  will  roar,  that  I  will 
do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me  ;  I  will  roar,  that  I  will 
make  the  duke  say,  Let  hitn  rear  agnin^  let  liini  roar  again. 

Qnin.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would  fright 
the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek ;  and  that 
were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All,  Every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should  fright  the  ladies 
out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more  discretion  but  to 
hang  us  ;  but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you 
as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove  ;  I  will  roar  you  an  'twere  any 
nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus:  for  Pyramus  is 
a  sweet-faced  man  ;  a  proper  man  as  one  shall  see  in  a  summer's 
day  ;  a  most  lovely,  gentleman-like  man  ;  therefore  you  must 
needs  play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it. 

Qnin.  Here,  masters,  are  your  parts  :  and  I  am  to  intreat 
you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by  to-morrow 
night,  and  meet  me  in  the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the 
town,  by  moonlight ;  there  will  we  rehearse  :  for  if  we  meet  in 
the  city  we  shall  be  dogg'd  with  company,  and  our  devices 
known.  In  the  mean  time  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties  such 
as  our  play  wants.     I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse  most 
obscenely  and  courageously.     Take  pains  ;  be  perfect ;  adieu. 

Quin.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough.  \_Thc  rest  arc  hurrying  to  get  out  past  him: 
he  stops  thcni,  to  pass  before  theni.l     Hold,  or  cut  bowstrings. 

[Exeunt. 

3« 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Scene  2.— A  Wood  near  Athens.  There  is  a  hillock  at  c, 
beside  a  stream  of  ivater.  Loiu,  Jlozuer-covered  rocks  and 
banks  are  R.  and  L.,  near  the  front. 

Enter  a  FAIRY,  pinching  flozuers.  With  her  wand  she 
switches  at  a  niushroovi-growth  near  C,  and  from  it  VUCK 
appears. 

'    Pnck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you? 

Fai.  I  do  wnndcr  everywhere, 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ;  ' 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here,  \_Plucking  flowers. 

And  hang  a  pearl  on  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits,  I'll  be  gone  ; 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night ; 
Take  heed,  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight, 
For  Obcron  is  passing  fell  and  wrath. 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king  ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling  : 
And  jealous  Obcron  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild  : 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy. 

Fai,  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Call'd  Robin  Goodfellow  ;  are  you  not  he, 
That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villagery  ; 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright  ;  ' 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile. 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab; 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 

32 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

And  on  her  withcr'd  dewlap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  talc, 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  niistnkctli  me  ; 
Then  slip  I  from  beneath,  down  topples  she, 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room.  Faery,  here  comes  Obcron.  \Lookiug  to  the  R. 

Fai,  \J.ookiug  oJfL.']  And  here  my  mistress  : — Would  that 
he  were  gone  ! 

OberoN  rt';/.'/  his  train  enter  quite  quickly  from  the  R.,  but 
be  hoi  di  fig  the  others,  ivlio  appear  at  the  L.,  he  draivs 
bach  and  holds  aloof  for  a  inomcnt  until  TiTANiA  enters, 
luith  her  attendant  fairies,  who  carry  a  canopy  covering 
the  Indian  child,  reclining  on  a  silver  couch,  ' 

Obe.   \_AdvancingP^^   III  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tit  a.  \^Sti~*-tled,  and  staying  her  train  by  a  gesture."] 
What,  jealous  Oberon  !  Fairies,  skip  hence.  \_They  make  a 
move,  all  to  the  L.,  as  if  to  fly.]  I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and 
company. 

Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton  ;  am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tita,  Why  art  tJiou  here 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskined  lady  and  your  warrior  love. 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  union  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.  How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolita, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 

Tita.  These  arc  the  forgeries  of  jealousy  : 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring. 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  in  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 

Obe.  Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 

33 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman. 

[lie  advances  to  the  canopy.  At  a  gesture  from  Til K^IK 
the  curtains  are  closed. 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest, 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 

[Obero>»  orders  his  attendants  to  advance,  and  he  dashes 
toward  the  couch  to  seice  the  child.  He  tears  aside  the 
curtains,  and  finds  that  it  has  disappeared. 

Tita.  His  mother  was  a  votaress  of  my  order  : 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side, 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood  ; 
l>ut  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die  ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  do  I  rear  up  her  boy  : 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

[jUotions  to  the  attendants,  ivh.o  carry  the  canopy  away. 

Ohc.   How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  ? 

Tita.  Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  In  our  round, 
And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us  ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Ohc.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tita.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom.     Fairies,  away  : 
Wc  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exeunt  TiTANIA  and  her  Train. 

Ohc.  Well,  go  thy  way  :  thou  shalt  not  from  this  grove. 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury : 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remembcr'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Ohc.  That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst  not,). 

34 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 

Cupid  all  arni'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took  •  ' 

At  a  fair  vestal,  throned' by  the  west ; 

And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 

But  I  might  see  youngs  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon  ; 

And  tlic  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 

Before,  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, — 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower :  the  herb  I  shcw'd  thee  once ; 

The  juice  of  it  on  slecpin^^  eyelids  laid,  ■    '  .  • 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote  : 

Upon  tlie  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb,  and  be  thou  here  again, 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.  I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  ^  .  \^Exit  PucK,  through  the  air. 

Obc.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep. 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes  ; 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 
(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,) 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love: 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  from  off  her  sight, 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb,) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here  ?     I  am  invisible  ; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

\Rctircs  up  and  reclines  upon  a  bank  of  Jloweri. 

Enter  Demetrius,  Helena  following  him. 

Dent.  I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not.     • 
Where  is  Lysandcr  and  fair  Hcrmia  ? 

35 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

The  one  I'll  slay,  the  other  sLiyeth  me. 

Thou  told'st  mc,  they  were  stol'n  unto  this  wood. 

Hence,  £;ct  thee  cjonc,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

//cl.  You  drnw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant : 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  all  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel.     Ixave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dci/i.  Do  I  entice  you  ?     Do  I  speak  you  fair  ? 
Or,  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you — I  do  not,  nor  I  cannot,  love  you  ? 

//r/.  And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 
I  am  your  spaniel  ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  mc,  I  will  fawn  on  you  ; 
Use  mc  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  me,  lose  mc.;  only  give  me  leave, 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
And  to  be  used  as  you  do  use' your  dog. 

Dc/n.  I'll  run  from  thee,  and  hide  mc  in  the  brakes. 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

//cl.  The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will  ;  the  story  shall  be  chang'd ;. 
Apollo  flics,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase  ; 
The  dove  pursues  the  griffin  ;  the  mild  hind 
Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger  :  bootless  speed  ! 
When  cowardice  pursues,  and  valor  flics. 

[S/te  clings  to  him. 

Dciii.  I  will  not  stay  thy  questions  ;  {Shakes  Iter  off."]    let 
me  go  : 
Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

HcL  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  and  field, 
You  do  mc  miscliicf.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex  : 
We  cannot  flght  for  love,  as  men  may  do  ; 
We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 

\_Shr  attempts  to  clasp  his  arm — he  avoids  her.  Exit  DE- 
METRIUS. Helena  sinks  for  a  inovicnt  in  grief,  then 
starts  i{p. 

36 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

I'll  follow  thcc,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell. 

To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well.  \_Exit  HELENA, 

Obe.  Fare  tliee  well,  nymph  :  ere  he  do  leave  this  grove, 
Thou  shall  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. 

Re-enter  PuCK. 

Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obc.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me.: 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows  ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roscs,  and  with  eglantine  :. 
There  sleeps  Titania,  sometime  of  the  night, 
LuU'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight; 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes. 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove, 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  :  she's  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :  anoint  his  eyes  ; 
Jkit  do  it  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man       .».-,•• 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some  care  ;  that  he  may  prove  '    ; 

More  fond  on  her.  than  she  upon  her  love  : 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 

Puck.   Fear  not,  my  lord,  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

{^Exeunt,  different  ways. 

Enter,  from  side  of  Puck's  exit,  Lysander  and  Hermia, 
V\JCK  creeps  back  after  tkevi  and  hides, 

Lys,  Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in  the  woods, 
And,  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way; 
We'll  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 
And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander,  find  you  out  a  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 

37 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,  m 

.  Lys.  One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both  ; 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms  and  one  troth. 

Jlcr.  Nay,  good  Lysander  ;  for  my  sake,  my  dear, 
Lie  further  off  yet,  do  not  lie  so  near. 
So  far  be  distant,  and  good  night,  sweet  friend  ; 
Thy  love  ne'er  alter,  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.  Amen,  Amen,  to  that  fair  prayer  say  I, 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty ! 
Here  is  my  bed  :  Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest  ! 

Ilcr.  With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be  press'd. 

\Thcy  sleep.     PuCK  advances  from  his  liiding  place. 
Puck.  Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear : 
This  is  he  my  master  said 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid  ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul,  she  durst  not  lie 
l^car  this  lack-love,  this  kill-court'sy. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe  : 
When  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 
So  awake,  when  I  am  gone  ; 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  [^Exit  PuCK. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  HELENA,  running. 

Hcl.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Devi,  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus. 

Hcl.  O,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?  do  not  so. 

Devi.  Stay,  on  thy  peril  ;  I  alone  will  go. 

[/TaV/  Demetrius. 

Hcl.  O,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase  ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hcrmia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies. 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes  : 

38 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

But  who  Is  here? — Lysandcr  !  on  the  ground  !  ' 

Dead  ?  or  asleep  ?     I  sec  no  blood,  no  v.-ound  ! — 
Lysandcr,  If  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lys.  \^Wakiu^.']  And  run  through  fire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet 
sake, 
Transparent  Helena!     Nature  shows  her  art, 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 
Where  is  Demetrius  ?     0,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword! 

Hcl.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysandcr;  say  not  so: 
What  though  he  love  your  Ilcrmia  ?     Yet,  what  though  ? 
Hermia  still  loves  you  :  then  be  thou  content. 

Lys.  Content  with  Hermia  ?     No  :  I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena,  I  love  : 

Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will,  >      .  . 

And  leads  me  to  your  eyes  ;   where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories,  written  in  love's  richest  book.  •      '    > 

Hcl.  Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  born? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong,  good  sooth,  you  do, 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo.  ; 

But  fare  you  well :  perforce  I  must  confess,  .  » 

I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness.  '       •.        ,, 

O,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refus'd,  '    • 

Should  of  another  therefore  be  abus'd  !  {^xit. 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia  ; — Hermia,  sleep  thou  there  ; 
And  never  mayst  thou  come  Lysandcr  near  ! 
And,  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might, 
To  honour  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight.  \^Exit, 

Her.  [Sfar/i/!£^.']    Help  me,  Lysandcr,  help   me  !    do  thy 
best, 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 

[S/ie  rises  and  looks  around. 
Ah  me,  for  pity  ! — what  a  dream  was  here  ! 
Lysandcr,  look  how  I  do  quake  with  fear  ! 
Methought  a  serpent  ate  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey  ; 

39 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Lysander  !  what,  removed  !  Lysander  !  lord  ! 
Wliat,  out  of  Iicaring  ?  gone?  no  sound,  no  word? 
Alack',  where  arc  you  ?  speak,  an  if  you  hear  ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  ;  I  swoon  ahnost  with  fear.     .  [^Exit. 

\^Thc  nigJit  deepens  during  the  preceding  scene.     At  tftc 
exit  of  IIermia  the  new  moon  is  seen  to  rise. 

ILntcr  TiTANiA,  with  her  Train. 

Tita.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song  ; 
Then,  for  the  tliird  part  of  a  minute,  hen.'C ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  : 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits  :  sing  me  now  asleep, 
Then  to  your  ofTices,  and  let  me  rest. 


SONG. 

I. 

I.  Fai.  You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 
Tiioriiy  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 
Newts,  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen  : 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  ; 
Lulla,  luUa,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good-night,  with  lullaby. 
40 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

n. 

2  Fat.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  : 

Hence,  you  long-Icgg'd  spinners,  hence, 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  ofTcnce. 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 

{Exeunt  FAIRIES.     TlTANIA  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon.  .  . 

Ohe.  What  thou  scest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 

{Squeezes  the  Jlozver  on  Titania'S  eyelids..^ 
Do  it  for  thy  true-love  take  ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake  ; 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear,  -  .       . 

Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair,  ■     • 

In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear  ; 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  {Exit. 

{The  curtain  sloivly  falls  when  the  moon  reaches  its  height 
and  its  rays  fall  on  TiTANiA.     To  the  strain  which 
brings  the  curtain  down,  it  slowly  again  ascends. 
41 


ACT  III. 

Same  Scene. —  The  curtain  rises,  disclosing  TiTANIA  still 
asleep  071  the  bank,  c.  The  moon  is  not  in  sight,  but  its 
rays  still  fall  on  the  scene. 

Enter  QuiNCE,  SxuG,  Flute,  Snout,  Starveling,  and 

Bottom. 

Bot.  Arc  wc  all  met  ? 

Quin,  Pat,  pat ;  and  here's  a  marvellous  convenient  place 
for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage,  this 
liawthorn  brake  our  tyring-house  ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action, 
as  we  will  do  it  before  the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince, — 

Quin.  What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyravius  and 
Thisbe  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus  must  draw  a 
sword  to  kill  himself;  which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How 
answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.  By  'r  lakin,  a  parlous  fear. 

Star.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out,  when  all  is 
done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit ;  I  have  a  device  to  make  all  well.  Write 
mc  a  prologue  ;  and  let  the  prologue  seem  to  say,  we  will  do 
no  harm  with  our  swords  ;  and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed  in- 
deed ;  and,  for  the  more  better  assurance,  tell  them,  that  I 
Pyramus  am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver  :  this  will 
put  tlicm  out  of  fear. 

Quill.   Well,  wc  will  have  such  a  prologue. 

Snout.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion  ? 

42 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Star.  I  fear  It,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves  :  to 
bring  in,  God  shield  us  !  a  lion  among  ladies,  is  a  most  dread- 
ful thing  ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-foul  than  your 
lion,  living;  and  we  ought  to  look  to 't. 

Snout.  Therefore,  another  prologue  must  toll  he  is  not  a 
lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his  face  must 
be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck  ;  and  he  himself  must  speak 
through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the  same  defect, — Ladies,  or,  fair 
ladies,  I  would  ^vish  you,  or,  I  tvould  request  you,  or,  /  ivould 
entreat  you,  not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble  :  vty  life  for  yours.  If 
you  think  I  come  hit  her  as  a  lion,  it  zvere  pity  of  my  life  :  no, 
lam  no  such  tiling;  lam  a  man  as  other  men  are :  ^nd 
there,  indeed,  let  him  name  his  name  ;  and  tell  them  plainly, 
he  is  Snug  the  joiner. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard  things  ; 
that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  chamber  :  for,  you  know, 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe  meet  by  moonlight.  • 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play  our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the  almanac  ;  find  out 
moonshine,  find  out  moonshine.  •   . 

Quin.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

[After  consulting  a  scroll. 

Bot.  Why,  then  may  you  leave  a  casement  of  the  great 
chambcr-windoAV,  where  we  play,  open  ;  and  the  moon  may 
shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quin.  Ay;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of  thorns 
and  a  lantern,  and  say  he  comes  to  disfigure,  or  to  present,  the 
person  of  Moonshine.  Then  there  is  another  thing  ;  we  must 
have  a  wall  in  the  great  chamber  ;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisbe, 
says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

Snug.  You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall. — What  say  you.  Bot- 
tom ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall ;  and  let  him 
have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some  roughcast,  about  him, 
to  signify  wall  ;  or  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through 
that  cranny  shall  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  whisper. 

43 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit  down,  every 
mother's  son,  and  relicarsc  your  parts.  Pyramus,  you  begin  : 
when  you  have  spoken  your  spcecli,  enter  into  tiiat  brake  ;  and 
so  every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

•         [77/9'  "^'^  about,  some  lying  at  full  length. 

Enter  Puck,  behind. 

Puck.  What  hempen  liomcspuns  liavc  we  swaggering  here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  ?     I'll  be  an  auditor  ; 
An  actor,  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quin.  Speak,  Pyramus  ; — Tliisbc,  stand  forth. 

Bot.  [/ij  Pyramus.]     Thisbe,  thejioiucrs  of  odious  savours 

sweet. 
Quin.  Odours,  odours. 

Bot.  \_As  Pyramus.]       odours  savours  siveet : 

So  hath  tJiy  breath,  my  dearest  TJiisbc,  dear. 
But,  hark,  a  voice  !   stay  tJion  but  here  a  ivJiilc, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  {Exit  to  the  R. 

Puck.  {Aside?\  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  played  here  ! 

[Exit  after  Bottom. 
P/u.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quin.  Ay,  marry,'  must  you  :  for  you   must  understand  he 
goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  Iieard,  and  is  to  come  again. 
J'lu.  \/1s  Tliisi'.i':.]  jUost  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily  ivhite 
of  hue. 
Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
jllost  brisky  juvcnal ,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  tvould  never  tire, 
ril  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninnfs  tomb. 
Quin.  Ninus'   tomb,  man  :  why,  you  must  not  speak  that 
yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus :  you  speak  all  your  part  at 
once,  cues  and  all. — Pyramus,  enter  ;  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is, 
never  tire. 

Re-enter  PuCK,  and  after  him  BOTTOM  with  an  ass's  head. 

Plu.  [V/.f  Tiiisiu;.]  O, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet 
would  never  tire. 

44 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Bot.  [As  P  VRAM  us.]  If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  zccrc  only 

tJiine  : —  , 

Quiu.     O  monstrous  !     0  strange  I  wc  arc  liaiintcd.     Pray, 
masters  !  fly,  masters  !  help  ! 

\_Excnnt  all  the  players,  in  various  ways. 
Puck.   I'll  follow,  ril  lead  them  about  a  round. 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through  brier. 

[/I'.r/V. 
Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away?  this  is  a  knavery  ofthctn  to 
make  mc  afcard. 

Re-enter  SXOUT. 

Snout.   0  JJoltom,  thou  art  changed!  what  CiO  I  see  on 
thee  ? 

Bot.  Wliat  do  you  sec  ?  you  see  an  ass's-head  of  your  own  ; 
do  you  ? 

Re-enter  QuiNCE. 

.   Quin.  Bless  thee,  Bottom  !  bless  thee  !  thou  art  translated. 

\_Exeunt  Snout  and  QuiNCE. 

Bot.  I  sec  their  knavery:  this  is  to  make  an  ass  of  me  ;  to 

fright  me.  if  they  could.     But  I  will  not  stir  from  this  place, 

do  what  they  can  ;  I  will  walk  up  and  down  here,  and  I  will 

sing,  that  they  shall  hear  that  I  am  not  afraid.  \_Sitigs. 

The  ou'^el-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 
The  wren  with  little  quill  : 
Tita.  [  Waking-.']  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery 
bed? 

Bot.   The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
And  dares  not  answer,  nay; — 
Tita.    I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again: 
Mine  car  is  much  cnamour'd  of  thy  note,  • '.  ' 

So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 

And  tliy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  dolh  move  mc,  •   • 

On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

45 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Bot,  Mcthlnks,  mistress,  you  should  have  Httic  reason  for 
that:  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little 
company  tof^cther  nowadays.  The  more  the  pity,  that  some 
lioiicst  neighbours  will  not  make  them  friends. 

Tita.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so,  neither :  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out  of 
this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tita.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit,  of  no  common  rate  ; 
The  summer  slill  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee  ;  therefore,  go  with  me  ; 
I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee  ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep,  \ 
And  sing,  wliilc  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossncss  so,  ^.,  / 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 
Peas-blossom  !  Cobweb  !  iMoth  !  and  Mustard-seed  ! 

[  Tlic  Goblins  cuter  as  each  o)ic  is  called  by  iiavic. 

Peas.  Ready. 

Ccb.  And  I. 

Moth.  And  I.       ' 

Miis.  And  I. 

All.  Where  shall  we  go  ? 

\All  making  oh cisa 71  ce. 

Tit.  Be  kind  and  courteous,  to  this  gentleman  ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks,  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries; 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  th.e  humble-bees. 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs. 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise  ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

Peas.  Ilail,  mortal  !  .       ; 

Cob.  Hail! 

46 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

.     Moth.  Hail ! 

Mils.  Hail! 

Dot.  I  cry  your  worships'  mercy,  heartily. — (7<?  COBWEB.) 
I  beseech  your  worship's  name. 

Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  master 
Cobweb.  If  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you. — 
{^To  Peas.)     Your  name,  honest  gentleman? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you,  commend  me  to  mistress  Squash,  your 
mother,  and  to  master  Peas-cod,  your  father.  Good  master 
Peas-blossom,  I  shall  desire  )'ou  of  more  acquaintance  too. — 
{To  Mustard-seed.)     Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir? 

Mus.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience 
well:  that  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured 
many  a  gentleman  of  your  house  :  I  promise  you,  your  kindred 
hath  made  my  eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you  of  more 
acquaintance,  good  master  Mustard-seed. 

Tita.  Come,  wait  uj:)0u  him  ;  lead  him  to  my  bower. 
\^TJicy  cast garlanih  of  fcnts  and  funvcrs  about  Jiini  and 
lead  Jtivi  off—folloiviitf^  TlTANIA.  After  they  go  off, 
R.  I.  E.,  OliEKO.N  appears  at  L.,  preceded  by  PUCK, 
suppressing  his  laughter  and  pointing  after  the  oth' 
crs. 

Obe.   How  now,  mad  spirit  ? 
What  night-rule  now  about  this  haunted  grove  ? 

Puck.   My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
While  she  was  in  licr  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals, 
That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls. 
Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play. 
Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 
The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort,' 
Who  Pyramus  presented  in  their  sport. 
Forsook  his  scene,  and  enter'd  in  a  brake: 
When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 
An  ass's  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head  ; 

47 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

And  forth  my  mimic  comes  :  when,  they  him  spy, 

Why,  at  his  sight,  away  the  fellows  fly  : 

He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 

When  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass^ 

Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov'd  an  ass.  .        • 

Obc.  This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 
But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  lovc-juicc,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do  ? 

Flic/:.   I  took  him  sleeping, — that  is  finish'd  too,— - 
And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side  ; 
Tliat  when  he  wak'd,  of  force  she  must  be  cy'd. 

^;;/rr  Demetrius  ^;;^  riERMiA. 

Obe.  Stand  close  ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.  This  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

DcDi,  O,  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you  so  ? 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Jlcr.  Now  I  but  chide,  but  I  should  use  thee  worse  ; 
For  thou,  I  fear,  Iiast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep. 
Then  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day,  -  .     .     • 

As  he  to  me  :  would  he  have  stol'n  away 
From  sleeping  Ilermia  ? 
It  cannot  be,  but  thou  hast  murder'd  him  ; 
So  should  a  murderer  look  ;  so  dread,  so  grim. 

Dan.   So  should  the  murder'd  look  ;  and  so  should  I, 
Plcrc'd  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty  : 
Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear. 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 

JJcr.  What's  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  where  is  he  ? 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me? 

Dcin.   I'd  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  hounds. 

JJcr.    Out,    dog  !    out,    cur  !    thou    driv'st    mc    past    the 
bounds 
Of  maiden's  patience.     Ilast  thou  slain  lum  then  ? 
Henceforth  be  never  numbered  among  men  ! 

4S 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.    . 

Devi.  You  spend  your  passion  ou  a  niispris'd  mood: 
I  am  not  guilty  of  Lysandcr's  blood  ;  . 

Nor  is  lie  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 

Ilcr.  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  then  that  lie  is  well. 
Don.  An  if  I  could,  what  sJiould  I  get  therefore  ? 
Her.  A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more. — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so  : 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.  \_Exit. 

Don.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein  : 
Here,  therefore,  for  a  while  I  will  remain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe  ; 
Which  now,  in  some  slight  measure,  it  will  pay, 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay.  \_Lies  down. 

Ohc.  What  hast  thou  done  ?     Thou  hast  mistaken  quite, 
And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true-love's  sight : 
About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  wind. 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find; 
All  fancy-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood  dear. 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here  ; 
I'll  charm  his  eyes  against  she  doth  appear. 

Puck.  I  go,  I  go  ;  look,  how  I  go; 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.  [Exit. 

Obe.   Flower  of  this  purple  dye. 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery, 
'  Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye  !       {Squeezes  Juice  of  Jlower. 

When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky. 
When  thou  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

Re-enter  PuCK. 

Puck,   Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand  ; 
And  the  youth  mistook  by  me. 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee  ; 

49 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Shall  \vc  their  fond  pngcant  sec  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

[  T/i^y  retire  aside. 


Enter  LySANDER  and  HELENA. 

Lys.  Why  should  you  think  that  I  should  woo  in  scorn  ? 
Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears. 

Loolc,  when  I  vow,  I  weep  ;  and  vows  so  born, 
In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 

Hel.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and  more. 
These  vows  arc  Ilcrmia's  ;  will  you  give  her  o'er? 

Lys.  I  liad  no  judy;ment,  when  to  her  I  swore, 
Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 

Don.  \_Aiuakifig.']  O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,  perfect,  divine  ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.     O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow  ! 

IIcl.  O,  spite  !  O,  fury  !  I  see  you're  all  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment. 
Can  you  not  hate  hie,  as  I  know  yoa  do, 
l^ut  you  must  join,  in  souls,  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so  : 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  supcrpraisc  my  parts, 
When,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hcrmia, 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena  : 
A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise, 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes 
With  your  derision  !     None  of  noble  sort 
Would  so  offend  a  virgin  ;  and  extort 
A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius  :  be  not  so  : 
For  you  love  Hermia  ;  this,  you  know,  I  know  ; 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart, 
In  Ilcrmia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part  ; 

50 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

And  yours  of  Ilclcnn,  to  nic  bequeath, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  death. 

IIcl.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 

Dcin.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Ilermia  ;  I  will  none  : 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  to  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourn'd  ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dent.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 
Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear. — 
Look,  where  thy  love  comes  ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 

Eilttr  HKRMI.\. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes  ; 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found  ; 
Mine  ear,  I  thank  it,  brouglit  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay  whom  love  doth  press  to  go? 

Her.  What  love  could  press  Lysander  fromniy  side  ? 

Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him.  bide  ; 

Fair  Helena  ;  who  more  engilds  the  night 

Than  all  yon  fiery  ocs  and  eyes  of  light. 

Why  scek'st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this  make  thee  know 

« 

The  hate  I  bear  thee  miadc  me  leave  thee  so  ?  ,  • 
Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think,  it  cannot  b^. 
Hcl.  Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd.  have  you  with  these  contriv'd 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ?  ■•  ■     ■ 

Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shar'd,  .  \  .  '    ■ 

The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
WHien  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time  .     • 

For  parting  us, — O,  and  is  all  forgot? 
All  sciiool-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence? 
So  we  grew  together, 

SI 


•     A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  : 
And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 

Jler.   I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words  : 
I  scorn  you  not  ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

lid.   Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
(Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  mo  with  his  foot,) 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul, 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection, 
13ut  by  your  setting  on,  by  your  consent  ? 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you. 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate  ; 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unlov'd  ! 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.   I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this  ! 

Hcl.  Ay,  do,  persibver,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mouths  upon  mc  when  I  turn  my  back, 
Wink  each  at  other,  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  : 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners. 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But,  fare  you  well :  'tis  partly  mine  own  fault. 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.  Stay,  gentle  Helena,  hear  my  excuse  ; 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena  ! 

Hcl.  O,  excellent ! 

Jicr.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Don.  If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

Lys.  Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she  entreat  ; 
Thy  threats  have  no  more  str-:gth,  than  her  weak  prayers. 
Mclcn,  I  love  thee  ;  by  my  life,  I  do  ; 

52 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee, 
To  prove  him  false  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Da/i.  I  say  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do.  • 

Lys.  If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  prove  it  too. 

Dctn.  Quick,  come, — 

Her.  Lysandcr,  whereto  tends  all  this  ? 

\_C lings  to  him. 

Lys.  Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr  !  vile  thing,  let  loose  ; 
Or  I  will  sha]<c  thee  from  nie,  like  a  serpent ! 

Her.   Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?  what  change  is  this, 
Sweet  love  ? 

Lys.  Thy  love  ?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out  ! 

Out,  loathed  medicine  !     0,  hated  potion,  hence  ! 

ILcr.   Do  you  not  jest  ?  [_Again  clinging  to  him. 

Hcl.  Yes,  'sooth  ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.   Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee* 

Devi.  I  would  I  had  your  bond,  for  I  perceive 
A  weak  bond  holds  you  ;  I'll  not  trust  your  word, 

L.ys.   What,  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her  dead  ? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I'll  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.  What,  can  you  do  me  greater  harm  than  hate  ? 
Hate  me  I  wherefore  ?     O  me  ! 

Since  night,  you  lov'd  me  ;  yet,  since  night,  you  left  me  : 
Why  then  you  left  me, — O,  the  gods  forbid ! — 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life  ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt, 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer,  'tis  no  jest. 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Her.   O  me  !  \to  Hel.]  you  juggler  !  you  canker-blossom  ! ' 
You  thief  of  love  !  what,  have  you  come  by  night, 
And  stolen  my  love's  heart  from  him  ?         [^Advancing  en  her. 

Hcl.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen, 
Let  her  not  hurt  me  ;  I  was  never  curst ; 

\_Retrcats  behind  the  men. 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness  ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice  ;  [Hermia  advances. 

S3 


A  MIDSUMMER.  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Let  her  not  strike  me. 

Good  Hcrmla,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 

I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 

Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wrong'd  you  ; 

.Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 

I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood  : 

He  follow'd  you  ;  for  love,  I  follow'd  him. 

But  he  hath  chid  me  hence  ;  and  threaten'd  me 

To  strike  mc,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 

And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go. 

To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back, 

And  follow  you  no  further.     Let  me  go  ; 

You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am, 

Ncr.  Why,  get  you  gone  :  who  is't  that  hinders  you  ? 

//<•/.  A  foolish  heart  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

//iV.  What,  with  Lysander  ? 

//(•I.  With  Demetrius. 

Lfs.  Be  not  afraid  :  she  shall  not  harm  thee,  Helena. 

Dcm.   No,  sir,  she  shall  not,  though  you  take  her  part.  } 

I/cL   O  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd  ;  '  ] 

She  was  a  vixen,  when  she  went  to  school.  | 

//cr.  Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ?  § 

Let  mc  come  to  her.  [Lysaxder  interposes.  '  \ 

Dan.   [  To  hint.^     You  are  too  ofTicious.  a 

Take  not  her  part :  for  if  thou  dost  intend  | 

Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her,  | 

Thou  shalt  aby  it.  5 

Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not ;  \ 

Now  follow,  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right,  U 

Or  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena.  .      |: 

Don.  Follow  ?  nay,  I'll  go  v/ith  thee,  cheek  by  jole.  \ 

[Exeunt  Lysandek  and  DKMETRIiJS.-  f- 

Her.  You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  'long  of  you  :  |' 

Nay,  go  not  back. 

Ilel.  I  will  not  trust  you,  I  ;  ' 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 

[WlLlvsiW  pursues  and  nearly  overtakes  her,  rt«^  HELENA 
finally  escapes  and  exits. 

S4 


A  MIDSUMMER.  NIGHT'S  DREAM, 

Her.  I  am  amaz'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

[Exit,  pursuing  HELENA. 

Obe.   [Advances  with  PuCK.]  Tliis  is  thy  ncgh'gcnce  :  still 
thou  mistak'st,  •    ' 

Or  else  commit'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puck.  Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  not  you  tell  me,  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on  ? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise, 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes  : 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Ohc.  Thou  scest,  these  lovers  seek  a  place  to  fight : 
Hie  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog  as  black  as  Acheron  ; 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray, 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong  ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 
Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep  : 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye, 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property, 
To  take  from  thence  all  error,  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eyeballs  roll  with  wonted  sight. 
Whiles  I  in  tliis  affair  do  thee  employ, 
I'll  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy  ; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 

Puck.  My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with  haste  ; 

[  Tlie  mists  begin  to  fall,  and  the  scene  connnences  to  dar- 
ken. 
For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger  ; 
At  whose  approach,  ghosts,  wandering  here  and  there, 

55 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone  ;      _ 

And  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 

And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd  night. 

Olfc.   But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort: 
I  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport  ; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery-red,  .     . 

Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams, 
l-^ut,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;  make  no  delay  : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day.  \_Exit  Oberon. 

Puck,   Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 

I  will  lead,  them  up  and  down  ; 

I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town  ; 

Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 

Enter  Lysander  {bclo'v]. 

Lys.   Where  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius  ?  speak  thou  now. 
Puck.   Merc,  villain  ;  drawn  and  ready.     Where  art  thou  ? 
Lys.   I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 
Puck.  Follow  me  then. 

To  plainer  ground.      \_Exit  LYSANDER,  as  folloivitig  the  voice. 


Enter  Demetrius  \above,  from  the  same  direction']. 

Dem,  Lysander  1  speak  again.     \Rc-enter  PuCK. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled? 
Speak — in  some  bush?     Where  dost  thou  hide  thy  head  ? 

Puck.  Thou  coward,  art  thou  bragging  to  the  stars, 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars. 
And  wilt  not  come  ?     Come,  recreant ;  come,  thou  child  ; 
I'll  whi[)  thee  with  a  rod  :  he  is  defil'd 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee, 

Dan.  Yea  ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck,   Follow  my  voice  :  we'll  try  no  manhood  here. 

\Excitnt.      The  fog  grows  more  dense. 
56 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Re-enter  Lysandicr  [a dove]. 

Lys.   He  goes  before  nic,  and  still  dares  inc  on  ; 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter  heel'd  than  I. 
I  follow'd  fast,  but  faster  lie  did  fly  ; 
That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way, 

And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day  I     \Lies  down. 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  gray  light; 
I'll  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.  {Sleeps. 

Re-enter  PuCK  and  DEMETRIUS  \beloiv]. 

Puck.  Ho,  ho,  ho  !     Coward,  why  com'st  thou  not? 

Don.  Abide  me,  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  sliifting  every  place, 
And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  mc  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  now  ?  \Sits  on  a  hank.' 

Puck.  Come  hither  ;  I  am  here. 

Dem.   Nay,  then,  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou  shalt  'by  this 
dear, 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  daylight  see  : 
Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constralneth  mc 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

\JJcs  down  and  sleeps.     The  scene  becomes  blacker. 

Enter  Hermia.  "     ' 

Her.   Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe, 
Bedabbled  with  the  dew,  and  torn  with  briers  ; 
I  can  no  further  crawl,  nor  further  go, 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  me,  till  the  break  of  day. 

Heaven  sliield  Lj'sander,  if  they  mean  a  fray  !         {Lies  down. 
Puck.   Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more  ; 
Two  of  both  kinds  make  up  four. 
Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad: 
Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad, 
Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

57 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Enter  Helena. 

IJcl.   O,  weary  night !    O,  long  and  tedious  night, 
Abate  thy  hours  :  shine,  comforts,  from  the  east, 
That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  daylight, 

From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest : — 
And  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye, 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company.  [^Sleeps. 

{The  ligltt  of  firc-Jlics  breaks  through  the  darkness,  and 
the  Goblins  and  Fairies  begin  to  assemble  in  the  mists. 

Spirits. 
On  t'lc  ground 
Sleep  thou  sound  : 
We'll  apply 

To  your  eye,  • 

Gentle  lover,  remedy. 
Puck.   \_Squceces  the  Juice  on  Lvsander's  eye."] 
A  fairy.     [^Sijigs.'] 

When  thou  wak'st, 
Thou  tak'st 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 
Of  thy  former  lady's  eye  : 
And  the  country  proverb  known, 
That  every  man  should  take  his  own, 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown  : 
Jack  shall  have  Jill ; 
Nought  shall  <io  ill. 


The  Curtain  Descends. 
58 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  i. — A  Tangled  Wood  and  Glen.  Titania  is  dis- 
covered seated  on  a  vionndof  Jlovjcrs,  at  tJic  base  of  a  fallen 
tree.  BOTTOM  is  beside  fier  still  wearing  the  ass's  Jiead. 
The  four  Goblins  arc  behind.     It  is  still  dark  and  misty . 

Tita.  Come,  sit  thcc  clown  upon  this  flowery  bed, 

While  I  thy  amiable  checks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 

And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.  Where's  Peas-blossom  ? 

Peas.  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom. — Where's  monsieur 
Cobweb  ? 

Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb  ;  good  monsieur,  get  you  yoUr 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble-bee 
on  the  top  of  a  thistle  ;  and,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the 
honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much  in  the  action, 
monsieur;  and,  good  monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag 
break  not ;  I  would  be  loth  to  have  you  over-flown  with  a 
honey-bag,  signior.     Where's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Mus.  What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  cavalero  Cobweb 
to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's,  monsieur  ;  for,  methinks, 
I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a  tender 
ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tita.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  ? 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music ;  let  us  have 
the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

59 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender  :  I  could  munch  your 
good  dry  oats.  Mcthinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of 
hay  :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Ti'a.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
Tlic  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bo!.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful,  or  two,  of  dried  peas. 
But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me  ; 
I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away.  \_Exeunt  FAIRIES. 

So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  cntwist ;  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  !  \_Thcy  sleep. 

ObekoN  advances.     Enter  PuCK. 

Obc.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     See'st  thou  this  sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity  : 
I'or  meeting  her  of  late,  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  favours  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her  and  fall  out  with  her  : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers; 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  that  changeling  child  ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain; 
That  he,  awaking  when  the  other  do. 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair. 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be,  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be, 

[  Touchhig  her  eyes  with  an  herb. 
Co 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

See,  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see  :  • 

Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania,  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 

Tiia.  My  Obcron  !  what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 
Mcthought  I  was  enamoured  of  an  ass. 

Obe.  There  lies  your  love.  '  ,  . 

Tit  a.  How  came  these  thiiigs  to  pass  ? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now  ! 

Obc.  Silence  a-whilc. — Robin,  talce  off  this  Iiead. — '.   '■ 
Puck.   {^Removing  the  ass's  head  from  I3ottom's  shoulders. 
Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own  fool's  eyes  peep. 
Fairy  king,  attend,  and  mark, 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 
Obc.  Come,  my  queen,  take  hands  with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  ;<nuty  ; 
And  will;  to-morrow  midnight,  -solemnly, 
Dance  in  IJr.ke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity  ', 
There  shr.'.i  the  pairs  of  fa.'dvful  lovcri  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity.  . 

\^Lhisic,  OS  they  exeunt.  As  they  go  out,  BOTTOM  azvakcs. 
Bot.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will  answer: — my 
next  is,  lifost  fair  Pyrauius. — Hey  ho  I — [/A*  sits  up.'\  Peter 
Quince!  Flute,  the  bellows-mender  I  Snout,  the  tinker! 
Starveling  I  By  my  life  !  stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep  !  I 
have  had  a  most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a  dream,— past  the 
wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was, — Man  is  but  an  ass,  if  he 
go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought  I  was — there  is 
no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought  I  was — and  I  methought 
I  had, — but  man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say 
what  mcthought  I  had.  The  eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,, 
the  ear  of  man  hath  not  seen,  man's  hand  is  hot  able  to  taste, 
his  tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report,  what  my  dream 
was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  write  a  ballad  of  this  dream: 
it  shall  be  called  Bottom's  Dream,  because  it  Iiath  no  bottom  ; 
and  I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter  end  of  a  play,  before  the  duke  : 

6x 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

j^eradvcnturc,  to  make  It  the   more  gracious,  I   shall  sing  it 
after  Thisbc's  death.  [^;r?V  BOTTOM. ' 

\Aftcr  a  strain  of  music  daybreak  begins  to  appear.  The 
sun  rises.  The  glen  and  tangled  wood  disappear ,  as 
the  mists  ascend  and  discover  the  lovers  asleep  as  before. 
Ilunting-music  is  heard,  and  a  pleasure-barge  appears 
in  the  background  bearing  TllESEUS,.  IIlPPOLITA, 
y.i}V:\]S,V\ULO'r>'VKATV.,  and  others.  It  pauses  at  the  Q., 
^//fl^TlIESKUS  and  the  others  disembark. 

The.  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester, 

For  now  our  observation  is  performed; 

And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 

My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 

Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  ;  let  them  go  : 

]:)cspatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester.       \_Exit  PlIILOSTRATE. 

\Vc  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 

Atul  mark  the  musical  confusion 

Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  1  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 

When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 

With  hounds  of  Sparta  :  never  did  I  hear 

Such  gallant  chiding  ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 

The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 

S';cm'd  all  one  mutual  cry  :  I  never  heard 

So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

The.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 

So  flew'd,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 

With  cars  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 

Crook-knee'd  and  dcw-lapp'd  kke  Tliessalian  bulls  ; 

Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 

Each  under  each,     A  cry  more  tuneable 

Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn. 

In  Crete,  In  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 

Judge,  when  you  hear. — But,  soft ;  what  nymphs  arc  these  ? 
llge.  \^\Vho  lias  discovered  W.M^'^wt^  and  beckoned  to  THE- 
SEUS.]  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep  ; 
.62 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

And  this  Lysander  ;  this  Demetrius  is  ; 
This  Helena,  old  Ncdar's  Helena : 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.  No  doubt  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  ofI\Iay  ;  and,  liearing  our  intent. 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. 
But,  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 
Egc.   It  is,  my  lord. 

The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their  horns. 

\_!Iorns   heard,    and  PlllLOSTRATE   re-enters.      DEMETRIUS, 
Lysander,  IIkrmia,  and  Helena  wake  and  start  up. 

The.  Good  morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is  past. 

Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord. 

[He  and  the  rest  kneel  to  TlIESEUS. 

The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know,  you  two  are  rival  enemies  ; 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy, 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.  ]\Iy  lord,  I  shall  reply  ama^^edly,  .         ■ 

Half 'sleep,  half  waking, 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither  :  our  intent 
Was,  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.  Enough,  enough,  my  lord  ;  you  have  ctiough  : 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head. 
They  would  have  stol'n  away,  they  would,  Demetrius,' 
Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me  : 
You  of  your  wife,  and  me  of  my  consent. 

Dcni.  My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their  stealth, 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood  ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them. 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 
V>\\\,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, 
(But,  by  some  power  it  is,)  my  love  to  Hermia, 
Melted  as  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 

63 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gaud, 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon  :  ' 

And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 
The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord. 
Was  I  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia. 

T/ic.  Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  wc  more  will  hear  anon. 
Egcus,  I  will  overbear  your  will. 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us, 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn, 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens  ;  three  and  three,     . 
We'll  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. 
Come,  Ilippolita. 

[I7c   re-enters   the  barge   luith    PIlPPOLITA   and  EgeUS, 
PlIIL0STRATE/c7//(;rf///^.  __^ 

IIcl.  Arc  you  sure 

That  we  arc  awake  ?     It  seems  to  me, 
71iat  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  not  you  think, 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 

Her.  Yea,  he  did  bid.  us  follow  to  the  temple. 
Devi.  Why  then,  wc  are  awake  :  let's  follow  him,    . 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams. 

[Excnnt  into  the  barge. 
\As  the  barge  begins  to  move  off  tJie  pietnrc  ehanges^  shoiu- 
ing  the  passage  of  TJIESEUS  to  his  capital.. 


Curtain. 
64 


ACT  V. 
Scene  i. — The  House  of  Quince  again. 

Enter  Quince,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  Is  he  come 
home  yet  ?  . 

Star,  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt,  he  is  trans- 
ported. 

Fill.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred.  It  goes  not 
forward,  doth  it  ? 

Qiiin.  It  is  not  possible  :  you  have  not  a  man  in  all  Athens 
able  to  discharge  Pyramus,  but  Bottom. 

Flu.  No  ;  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any  handicraft 
man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too  :  and  he  is  a  very  par- 
amour for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say,  paragon  :  a  paramour  is,  God  bless  us, 
a  thing  of  naught. 

Enter  Snug. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the  temple,  and 
there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies  more,  married  :  if  our 
sport  had  gone  forward  we  had  all  been  made  men. 

Flu.  O  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hath  he  lost  sixpence 
a-day  during  his  life;  lie  could  not  have  'scaped  sixpence 
a-day  :  an  the  duke  had  not  given  him  sixpence  a-day  for  play- 
ing Pyramus,  I'll  be  hanged  ;  he  would  have  deserved  it  :  six- 
pence a-day,  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  BOTTOM. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads  ?  where  arc  these  hearts  ? 

6s 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Qiiin.  Bottom  ! — O  most  courageous  day  !  0  most  happy 
hour  !     \_TJicy  all  crowd  about  him.'] 

Bet.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders  :  but  ask  me  not 
what ;  for  if  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  true  Athenian.  I  will  tell  you 
everything,  right  as  it  fell  out. 

Quin.  Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell  you  is,  that  the 
duke  hath  dined.  Get  your  apparel  together  ;  good  strings  to 
your  beards,  new  ribbons  to  your  pumps  ;  meet  presently  at 
the  palace  ;  every  man  look  o'er  his  part ;  for,  the  short  and 
the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any  case,  let  Thisbc 
have  clean  linen  :  and  let  not  him  that  plays  the  lion  pare  his 
nails,  for  they  shall  hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And,  most 
dear  actors,  cat  no  onions,  nor  garlic,  for  we  are  to  utter  sweet 
breath  ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  to  hear  them  say,  it  is  a  sweet 
comedy.     No  mere  words  ;  away  ;  go,  away.  \Exeiint. 


Scene  2.— The  Pal.\ce  of  Theseus. 
Enter  Theseus,  HirrOLITA,  and  Lords,  and  attendants. 

Hip.   'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these   lovers   speak 

of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.     I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Arc  of  imagination  all  compact : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  space  can  hold — 
That  is,  the  madman  ;  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Kgypt. 
The  i^oct's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven  ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name, 

66 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Enter  Lysander,  Demetrius,  Hermia,  and  Helexa,  with 

Egeus. 

The.  Here  cone  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. — 
Joy,  gentle  friends  !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love, 
Accompany  your  hearts  !  '  • 

Lys.  More  than  to  us, 

Wait  in  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed  ! 

The.   Come  now  ;  what  masks,  what  dances  shall  we  have, 
To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
What  revels  arc  in  hand  ?     Is  tlicre  no  play. 
To  case  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 
Call  Philostrate.  [PiilLOSTRATE  enters  from  R. 

Philost.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

TJlc.  Sny,  what  abridgment  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 
What  mask,  what  music  ?     How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Philost.  There  is  a  brief,  how  many  sports  are  ripe ; 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 

\_OJfcrs  a  paper  to  TlIESEUS,  Zijho  directs  DEMETRIUS  to 
read. 

Don.  [Reads.]    The  battle  zuith  the  Centaurs,  to  be  sung, 
By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp. 

The.  We'll  none  of  that :  that  have  I  told  my  love, 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

Dem.    The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 
Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage. 

The.  That  is  an  old  device,  and  it  was  play'd 
When  I  from  Thebes  cam.e  last  a  conqueror. 

Dcni.  A.  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyrannis^ 
And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth 

The.  Merry  and  tragical?  Tedious  and  brief? 
That  is,  hot  ice,  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 
How  shall  wc  find  the  concord  of  this  discord  ? 

Philost.  A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ten  words  long  ; 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play  ; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long ; 

67 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Which  makes  it  tedious  :  for  in  all  the  play, 
Tlicrc  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted. 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is  ; 
For  Pyrannis  therein  doth  kill  himself. 
WJiich,  when  I  saw  rehears'd,  I  must  confess, 
Made  mine  eyes  water  ;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

T/:c.  What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 

Philcst.  Hard-handed  men,  that  work  in  Athens  here, 
Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now  ; 
And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreath'd  memories 
With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial. 

TJu\  I  will  hear  tlint  play  ; 
For  never  anything  can  be  amiss. 
When  simplcnoss  and  duty  tender  it. 
Go,  bring  them  in  :  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 

\^Exit  PlIILOSTRATE,  R.  HELENA  and  HERMIA,  LYSAN- 
DER  and  Demetrius,  with  Egeus,  recline  on  the  di- 
vans at  L.     Theseus  and  Hippolita  and  Court  sit  R. 

Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'crcharg'd, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

TJic,  Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  no  such  thing. 

//.'/•.   lie  says,  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

TJic.  The  kinder  we,  to  give  them  thanks  for  nothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be,  to  take  what  they  mistake  : 
And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do,  noble  respect 
Takes  it  in  might,  not  merit. 

-  Enter  Philostrate. 

Philost.  So  please  your  grace,  the  prologue  is  addrcss'd. 
The.  Let  him  approach.  \_Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  upon  the platfornt  at  bad:  PETER  QuiNCE,  representing 

Prologue. 

Pro!.  If  we  ofiend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 

That  you  should  think,  we  come  not  to  offend, 
But  with  good  will.     To  show  our  simple  skill, 
6S 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

That  is  the  true  bcglnnhig  of  our  end.  . 

Consider  then,  \vc  come  but  in  despite. 

We  do  not  come,  as  minding  to  content  you, 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight, 

We  are  not  licre.     That  you  should  here  repent  you, 
The  actors  arc  at  hand  ;  and  by  their  show, 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  arc  like  to  know. 
The.  This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 
Lys.  He  hath  rid  his  prologue  like  a  rough  colt ;  he  knows 
not  the  stop. .  A  good  moral,  my  lord  :  it  is  not  enough  to 
speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed,  he  hath  played  o\\  his  prologue  like  a  child  .on 
a  recorder  ;  a  sound,  but  not  in  government. 

T/ic.   His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain  ;  nothing  impaired, 
but  all  disordered.     Who  is  next  ? 

[^During  the  fclloiuiiig,  as  each  man  is  navied  he  .enters, 
bows,  and  goes   above  and  stands  until  the  end  of  the 
Prologue.     Bottom  as  Pvramus,   Flute  as  Thisbe, 
Snout  as  Wall,  Starveling  as  Moonshine,  and 
Snug    as   Lion.     Prologue   is   a    very  aged   man, 
crozuned  with  bays. 
Prol.    Gentles,  perchance  you  wonder  at  this  show ; 
But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know; 

This  beauteous  lady  Thisbe  is,  certain. 
This  man,  with  lime  and  rough-cast,  doth  present 

Wall,  that  vile  Wall  which  did  these  lovers  sunder  : 
And  through  Wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  content 

To  whisper ;  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 
Presenteth  Moonshine  :  for,  if  you  will  know. 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo.     -. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  byname  Lion  hight, 
The  trusty  Thisbe,  coming  first  by  night. 
Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright : 
And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall ; 

Which  Lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  stain. 
69 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth  and  tall, 

And  finds  his  trusty  Thisbc's  mantle  slain  : 
Whereat  v/ith  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 
Me  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast ; 
And  Thisbe,  tarr}'ing  in  mulberry  shade, 

•  His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
Let  Lion,  Moonshine,  Wall,  and  lovers  twain, 
At  largo  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain. 
YExcnnt  PROLOGUE,  Thishe,  Pyramus,  Wall,  Moon- 
shine, and  LlOX  last^  bowing  many  times. 
The.  I  wonder,  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 
Dcm.  No  wonder,  my  lord  :  one  Hon  may,  when  many 
asses  do. 

Re-enter  WALL. 

Wall.  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befall, 
That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall : 
And  such  a  wall  as  I  would  have  you  think, 
That  had  in  it  a  cranny'd  hole,  or  chink, 
Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisbe, 
Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
This  loam,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone  doth  show 
That  I  am  that  same  wall  ;  the  truth  is  so  : 
And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister. 
Through  wliich  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper. 

The.   Would  you  desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak  better? 

Dcm.   It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard  discourse, 

my  lord. 

PVRAMUS  enters. 

Tlie.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall  :  silence. 

Pyr.   O  grim-look'd  night  !     0  night  with  hue  so  black  ! 

0  night,  which  ever  art  when  day  is  not  ! 
O  night,  O  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

1  fear  my  Thisbe's  promise  is  forgot  ! — 
And  tliou,  O  wall.  0  sweet,  O  lovely  wall, 

That  stand'st  between  her  father's  ground  and  mine, 
Tliou  wall,  O  wall,  O  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 

Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with  mine  cyne. 

[\Vall  holds  up  his  fingers. 
JO 


•  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM,        •  ' 

Thanks,  courteous  wall :  Jove  shield  thee  well  for  this ! 

But  what  sec  I  ?     No  Thisbc  do  I  sec.  \' 

O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  sec  no  bliss  ; 

Curs'd  be  thy  stone  for  thus  deceiving  mc  !  '   • 

The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should  curse  again. 

Boi.  No,  in  truth,    sir,  he  should   not.     Deceiving  me  is 

Thisbe's  cue  :  she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am  to  spy  her  through 

the  wall.     You  shall  see,  it  M'ill  fall  pat  as  I  told  you: — yonder 

she  comes. 

Enter  TiilSBE. 

TJiis.  O  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moans, 

For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me  ! 

Pyr.  I  see  a  voice  :  now  will  I  to  the  chink, 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisbe's  face.     • 
Thisbe  ! 

This.   My  love  !  thou  art  my  love,  I  think. 

Pyr.  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace 
And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still. 

TJiis.  And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  mc  kill. 

Pyr.  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true. 

This.  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you. 

Pyr.  O,  kiss  me  through  the  chink  of  this  vile  wall. 

This.   I  kiss  the  wall  and  not  your  lips  at  all. 

Pyr.  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me  straightway?    • 

TJiis.  'Tide  life,  'tide  death,  I  come  without  delay. 

\_Excunt  TiiiSBE  and  PvRAMUS,  severally. 

Wall.  Thus  have  I,  Wall,  my  part  discharged  so  ; 
And,  being  done,  thus  Wall  away  doth  go.  \^Exit  WalL. 

Hip.  This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 

TJie.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows  ;  and  the  worst 
arc  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 

Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination,  then,  and  not  theirs. 

TJic.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them,  than  they  of  them- 
selves, they  may  pass  for  excellent  men.  [Enter  LlON  atid 
Moonshine.]  Here  come  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  man  and  a 
lion. 

[Lton,  before  he  speahs,  removes  his  head  and  bozus  to  the 
Court. 

71 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  #■  * 

Lion.  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 
The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on  floor, 
May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 
When  Hon  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
Then  know  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am. 
No  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam  : 
For  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  on  my  life. 

l^Puts  on  his  head  again. 

Hel.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  conscience. 

jycm.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  that  e'er  I  saw. 

Her.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 

L}'S.  True  ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion.  [Enfer  the 
Moonshine,]  It  is  well:  leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us 
hearken  to  the  moon. 

Moon.  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present ; 
Myself  the  man  i'  th'  moon  doth  seem  to  be. 

TJic,  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest :  the  man 
should  be  put  into  the  lantern  :  how  is  it  else  the  man  i'  the 
moon  ? 

Deni.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle  :  for,  you 
see,  it  is  already  in  snuff. 

Hd.  I  am  aweary  of  this  moon  ;  would  he  would  change. 

Her.  It  appears,  by  his  small  light  of  discretion,  that  he  is 
in  the  v/anc  :  but  yet,  in  courtesy,  in  all  reason,  we  must  stay 
the  time. 

The.  Proceed,  Moon. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say,  is  to  tell  you,  that  the  lantern 
is  the  moon. ;  I,  the  man  in  the  moon  ;  this  thorn-bush,  my 
thorn-bush  ;  and  this  dog,  my  dog. 

The.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern ;  for  they 
are  in  the  moon.     But,  silence  ;  here  comes  Thisbe. 

Enter  Thisbe. 

This.  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.     Where  is  my  love  ? 
Lion.  Oh — . 

\The  Lton  roars.     TIIISUE  runs  ojf,  leaving  mantle. 

72 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Dent.  Well  roared,  lion.  .' 

HcL  Well  run,  Tlusbc.  •       •. . ' 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon.     Truly,  the  moon  shines  with  a 
jood  grace.  [LlON  tears  Tiiisde's  mantle ^  and  exit. 

The.  Well  moused,  lion. 
Lys.  And  then  came  Pyramus. 
Dcni.  And  so  the  lion  vanished. 


Enter  Pyramus. 

Pyr.  Sweet  moon,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  sunny  beams, 
I  thank  thee,  moon,  for  shining  now  so  bright ; 
For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  streams, 
I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisbe's  sight. 
}?ut  stay  ; — O  spite  ! 
But  mark  ; — poor  knight, 
What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ? 
Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
How  can  it  be  ? 
O  dainty  duck  !  O  dear ! 
Thy  mantle  good, 
What,  stain'd  with  blood  ? 
Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 
O  fates  !  come,  come  ; 
Cut  thread  and  thrum  ; 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell  I 


The.  This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend,  would 
go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 

Hip.  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 

Pyr.  O,  wiicrefore,  nature,  didst  thou  lions  frame  ? 

Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflower'd  rny  dear  : 
Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  fairest  dame. 

That  liv'd,  that  lov'd,  that  lik'd,  that  look'd  with  cheer. 
Come,  tear:5,  confound  ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wound 
73 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

The  pap  of  Pyramus  : 
Ay,  that  left  pap 
Where  heart  doth  hop  :— - 
Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
Now  am  I  dead, 
Now  am  I  fled, 
My  soul  is  in  the  sky  : 
Tongue,  lose  thy  light  !   ' 
Moon,  take  thy  flight  ! 
Now,  die,  die,  die,  die,  die. 

IDics,    Exit  Moonshine. 
The.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  he  might  y  Jt  recover,  and 
prove  an  ass. 

Hip.  How  chance  Moonshine  is  gone,  before  Thisbe  comes 
back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will  And  him  by  starlight.     {Jlc-euter  TlIISBE.] 
Here  she  comes  ;  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Enter  Thisbe. 

////.  Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one  for  such  a 
Pyramus  :  I  hope  she  will  be  brief. 

Dcm.  She  hath  spied  hini  already  with  those  sweet  eyes. 

This.  Asleep,  my  love  ? 

What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
O  Pyramus,  arise,   . 

Speak,  speak.     Quite  dumb  ? 

Dead,  dead  ?  A  tomb 
Must  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 

These  lily  lips, 

This  chcry  nose, 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 

Are  gone,  are  gone  : 

Lovers,  make  moan  ! 
.   His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 

O  sisters  three, 

Come,  come  to  me, 

74 


A  MIDSUMMER.  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

With  hands  as  pale  as  milk  ; 

Lay  them  in  gore, 

Since  you  have  shore, 
With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 

Tongue,  not  a  word  : 

Come,  trusty  sword  ;  .     • 

Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue  ; 

And  farewell,  friends  ; 

Thus  Thisbe  ends  : 
Adieu,  adieu,  adieu. 

[Dies.     Falls  071  Pyramus,  ^vho  rolls  away. 

The,  Moonshine  and  Lion  arc  left  to  bury  the  dead. 

Bottom  rises  and  hoivs. 

Bot.  No,  I  assure  you.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  the  epi- 
logue, or  to  hear  a  Bergomask  dance,  between  two  of  our  com- 
pany ? 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you  ;  for  your  play  needs  no  ex- 
cuse. Never  excuse  ;  for  when  the  players  are  all  dead,  there 
need  none  to  be  blamed. 

[Bottom  bo-MS,   and  drags   TlUSV.'R  off  the  stage.     Mid- 
night so7inds  from  various  distant  bells. 
The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  telleth  twelve  : — 
Lovers  now  list'  :  'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
Sweet  friends, 

A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity, 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity. 

[Fairy  music  is  heard  and  through  the  misty  distance  PuCK 
and  the  Goblins  arise  and  Oberon  and  TiTAXIA,  with 
tJieir  attendants,  appear. 

Oberon.  If  we  shadows  have  offended, 

Think  but  this,  (and  all  is  mended,) 
That  you  have  but  slumber'd  here. 
While  these  visions  did  appear. 
And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
No  more  yielding  but  a  dream, 

75 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS  DREAM. 
A  Chorus  is  Sung. 

TiTANIA  [and fairies]. 

Through  this  house  give  glimmering  h'ght, 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire — 

Every  clf  and  fairy  sprite 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier. 

And  this  ditty,  after  inc, 

Sing,  and  sing  it  trippingly. 


So  shall  all  the  couples  three 
Ever  true  in  loving  be  ; 
Every  fairy  take  his  gait, 
And  each  chamber  consecrate  ; 
And  each  several  chamber  bless, 
Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace. 

%  Curtain. 

>^  76 


■  ^^ 


^- 


o 


THE    COMEDY  ^OF 

A 

MIDSUMMER 
NIGHT'S    DREAM 


WRITTEN    BY   WILLIAM   SH  ^    :SPERE 


And  Arrangkd  for  Representation  at  Daly's  Theatre,  by 

AUGUSTIN    DALY 

Proijuced  there  for  the  First  Time,  January  31,  1SS8 


1888 
PRIVATELY  PRINTED   FOR  MR.  DALY 


M  : 


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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 
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Renewed  books  ar^  ssibifct  to  immediate  recall. 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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